


Under Fingertips

by RurouniHime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Community: help_haiti, Difficult Pregnancy, Illnesses, M/M, Magic, Mpreg, Potions, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a month since he saw his lover, and Draco's had it with the disappearing act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Under Fingertips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeejunkii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeejunkii/gifts), [DJIN7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJIN7/gifts).



> I started this story in 2005 and finally finished it in 2012 (crazy times, crazy times), so I thought I'd post it here. Finally. Thus, the writing style changes a little as it goes.
> 
> Thanks to fireelemental79 for the beta work, and to djin7 for the cheerleading!

It was the fourth time this month. The fucking fourth time.

Draco Malfoy was still in his work clothes. He yanked his tie from his neck irritably and tossed it onto the couch. It slid down and coiled between the cushions like a forgotten piece of string.

It was the fourth fucking time that month that he couldn't find it in him to want to go to the club. 

He had tried to go to the club. Clubs, plural, in fact. But he had never seen who he needed to see there, and it made his gut twist even now just thinking about it.

Draco swigged down a glass of water and thought of other, stronger drinks. But he wasn't at that point yet. He gave it another two weeks before denial couldn't be bought with a hideously long day at the office and a couple of sleeping pills with cold water before bedtime. And he'd get to those in an hour or so anyway.

He couldn't _fathom_ how stupid he'd been. Malfoys weren't stupid. He'd managed to avoid it quite easily throughout his twenty-five years of life. But the closest he'd ever gotten had always been in the presence of the same damn person. Draco grimaced into the glass dish cabinet and saw a horrid parody of a smile on his face. Why should his one true moment of stupidity be any different?

Had he done something wrong? Draco scowled. 

"Well. Aside from the obvious, you imbecile." 

He couldn't remember ever seeing his former lover uncomfortable in his presence. No signs of regret or boredom. Hell, no signs of anything unusual. He'd just… left.

"And what, pray tell, were you hoping for?" Draco ground his teeth and bared them at his reflection. "Nothing ever comes of coming on a dance floor, now does it?"

It hadn't been his idea of a great first sexual encounter, especially with that particular person. Too much history to make it feel right. But it had led quickly to other sexual encounters that far eclipsed the spent gasps and ragged breathing and sweat melting through thin cotton shirts, encounters including bedsheets, and kitchen tabletops, and his own front _door_ , for Merlin's sake. 

Against the door, surely. But through the door at all was a small miracle. Draco never crossed home life with shag life, and certainly not club life. Until that night.

And the next night. And the one after.

Draco could feel his throat closing up. Weeks. Months. Gods, had it been… five months. His own fingernails cut into his palms and he stood quickly, tearing his sleeve buttons free ferociously, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows to give his hands something to do. Five months of nothing, as it turned out. 

Well. Four months of nothing. One month of sudden, furious confusion in an empty bed.

If only… Draco pressed his hands to his eyes, hating himself. He always went down this road, no matter how often he forced himself away from it. If only he had kept his bloody mouth shut. Only, the more they were together, the more it made sense to take a bit of a risk and tell his lover that he, Draco, might actually want something more out of this. It had seemed like a good thing to confess at the time; he'd thought the feeling was returned. But now he could see it had been too early for their sort of relationship.

He was starting to realize there would never be a right time, not even if their nightly shagging had lasted for ten years.

But what irked him - what really pricked him the most - was why the hell he had hoodwinked himself into even considering such a course of action. Commitment had never been any sort of issue before, not with any of the nameless, faceless, pretty fucks he'd found under the rainbow lights of the clubs, but with this man— Draco shut his eyes.

He wasn't crying. That had been two nights of shame past bearing. And it had thankfully left him alone at last, leaving the cold, hard pit of anger now residing in his stomach. If he ever saw him again… Fuck all.

The doorbell jangled and Draco swore. Always, always, always. What was it this time? His sadistic landlady demanding the check that absolutely had to be in her hands at 10:33 PM on the dot and couldn't wait another fucking minute. Maybe the woman across the courtyard, come to borrow a teaspoon of ginger and a peek into his living room if she could swing it. He considered not answering at all when the doorbell rang a second time, and then stalked to the hallway and put his eye to the peephole.

And felt his mind tilt wildly with sudden, orange fury.

Draco jerked the door open. There he was. On his fucking doorstep, just as innocent as you please.

"Well, well. Look who's returned."

Harry Potter's mouth thinned. His chin dropped a tiny bit and then he looked back at Draco again. He was wearing a long Muggle coat, black, hands deep in the pockets. The coat was too large and it hung about him, adding to a thinness that hadn't been there before. Harry looked tired; the circles under his eyes weren't sickly, but they were noticeable under the porch light.

Draco scowled. He moved into the doorway, effectively blocking it with his body. "Finished your club circuit, did you?"

Harry's eyes shut momentarily. He lifted his shoulders and glanced around. "Please, Malfoy. Let's not… do this out here."

At that moment, Draco had no desire or inclination to accede to anything Harry asked, not even if it was a glass of water. But he knew his neighbors. Already there was a curtain shifting across the courtyard. He stepped back and shoved the door open. It rebounded off the wall with a bang.

"By all means, Potter. Do come in," he sneered.

Harry hesitated, shutting his eyes again briefly, then stepped through the door. It wasn't Draco's imagination: Harry was keeping himself as close to the opposite wall as he could. As far away from Draco as he could. 

It did nothing to help Draco's mood.

"What a lucky arse I am," he spat. "Graced with the great Potter's presence at this hour? I wonder how many other men can say the same."

Harry looked him in the eye at last, face clouded with the hallway darkness and some twisting emotion. He looked even more worn out from across the short space separating them, and Draco felt the urge to touch the bare skin of his wrist to make sure it was still warm. The notion made him even angrier.

"Malfoy, please don't do this." Harry sounded as tired as he looked. Draco drew back, coiling himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Something else you were expecting?"

Harry opened his mouth but Draco beat him to it. "What the hell do you want, Potter?"

One of Harry's hands crept to the hem of his coat and tugged it briefly. "To talk," he said softly. "If you'll… If you—"

Draco turned and stalked deeper into the house, leaving Harry to follow him. He threw himself down on his living room couch and scowled at the other man. He had a headache coming, he could feel it in his temples. Dull. Growing. "Please explain to me. What is there to talk about?"

Harry sighed uncomfortably. "Malfoy, I'm sorry. I know that isn't what you… I'm not good at this." He rubbed his eyes with four fingers.

Draco felt like snarling. "Late nights dancing keeping you up?"

Harry stared at him, a tiny frown marring his features. "No. I haven't been to the clubs all month."

Something tried to settle in Draco's stomach but really, it was a damn weak attempt, wasn't it, in the face of everything else. "No, I didn't see you there, did I?" he spat.

Harry's face shivered, trying to curl into some sort of pained expression. He licked his lips and looked away. Drew a breath. "Draco, I don't know what I can say to expla—"

"How about why?" The sound of his own first name in such a well-known, well-adored voice brought him right to the edge and his words came out harsh and too, too loud. Draco jerked to his feet and Harry stuttered into silence. He paced the room, not looking at Harry because if he looked at him, fuck it, he wouldn't be held responsible for what happened.

"How about a fucking why, Potter? Or maybe you forgot the way you just walked out, no goodbye, no bloody message— you didn't even wait for me to wake up! And then you might as well have fallen off the face of the planet for all I heard from you. Maybe you should explain to me exactly what it was I did, or _said_ , maybe, that made you bugger out like a damned doxy without any sort of explanation!"

Harry's hands flew out and up. "I panicked, Malfoy! I just… god…" He covered his face with his palms.

Draco stopped and turned. " _Panicked_. Bloody fuck, Potter! What the hell was there to panic about? I wasn't _that_ fucking demanding!"

Harry's lips parted. There was something wild in his eyes for a split second, but it was swallowed by helplessness. "I…" He stared hollowly, imploringly, at Draco.

Draco grimaced. "Oh, but don't bother. I wasn't expecting an explanation, Potter. Maybe a few weeks ago, but we both know it's not your style, is it?" He laughed humourlessly. His head was throbbing now and he was dangerously close to… something shameful. It was hard to speak.

Harry's eyes snapped to his. "Fuck you, Malfoy," he spat. "There were things you—You don't even want to hear them!"

Draco rounded on him. "So you panicked. Pretty convenient, don't you think? Was it getting too heavy, Potter? Too domestic? Because I can take it back down to the dregs again."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"What was it, Potter?" Draco was a few feet away and Harry was backing up. "Needed a break? Did you find someone else to confide all your little secrets and sob stories to?"

"Malfoy, it wasn't about that." Harry backed into the wall and halted abruptly.

"Well, what was it about then?"

"I…" Harry's gaze faltered and dropped. His cheeks flushed and his shoulders hunched beneath that damned coat. "I couldn't be around you," he whispered. He shook his head mutely and Draco's anger bubbled over.

"Potter. You _left_ me. _Yes,_ that's what it was, don't look at me like that, you asshole." His jaw was clenched so tightly the pain in his head was wiping itself away. "After what I said, you just…" Draco suddenly wanted that night and all those words back. They sat there in his mind, swollen far beyond the laughing, carefree confessions they had been, and he felt the shame of that first week afresh.

"Was it someone else?" His voice was not one he recognized. Harry stilled, staring at him. "Handsome face, Harry? Good body?"

Harry tried to move away from the wall and Draco reached up and shoved his shoulder back into it. Harry's eyes shot wide.

"Malfoy, don't," he said, voice shaking. One hand clutched the hem of his coat. Draco leaned in, pressing against Harry slightly, a hand on his hip under the wool coat.

"Oh, please," he bit out. "You think I'm going to do something to you?"

Harry's head shook once. "No, that's not why I- Draco—"

"Spare me, Potter. I don't even want to touch you now. But this is what it used to be, remember? Before I fucking said too much?"

He _hated_ himself. His voice was cracking.

"God, Malfoy, why the hell did you have to say anything?" Harry cried. His anger was quivering, threatening to give way. "Why couldn't you have just left it alone?"

"Because it was the bloody truth! You are a fucking hypocrite, Potter!" He pressed Harry's hip harder to keep him from moving. "Spouting off about honesty this, trust that. I should have known you were just paying lip service."

"I wasn't paying lip service!" Harry was grimacing, blinking rapidly. "I never lied to you!" He struggled suddenly and Draco shifted his hand up to hold him better.

"Then why the hell did you lea—" And Draco stopped. Harry had gone rigid under his hands. But Draco was not thinking about that. His hand was—

He knew Harry's body. He _knew_ it. Inside and out, muscles and curves and hollows. His hand was on Harry's stomach - and this - there was a curve there, a fullness that shouldn't—

Draco raised his eyes to Harry's and found Harry staring at him, open and terrified, and… ripped asunder. He was trembling, eyes glistening, pleading with Draco to understand. 

Draco slid slowly to his knees on the carpet. He couldn't breathe. Or speak. He carefully pushed the edges of the coat open. Harry was breathing very quickly, quiet huffs that shook his entire frame, but Draco could _see_ it. He eased the white cotton of Harry's jumper up to just around his ribs. Harry's belly was gently rounded out, a soft curve easily concealed by voluminous clothing. Tanned skin once taut over abdominal muscles, now sloping perfectly outward.

Draco was shaking. His hands clutched the fabric of Harry's shirt. He raised his head to stare at Harry, wanting to… to… but not daring. He tried to speak and failed.

Harry's face suddenly flushed and he turned away, looking dismally ashamed. "Oh, for crying—" His eyes squeezed shut. He fumbled for Draco's right hand and brought it down, placing it over the smooth skin of his belly and holding it there. Heat beat from Harry's palm into the back of Draco's hand.

Draco stared at Harry's bared stomach. He could smell him, the scent of the soap he used, and there beneath his hand was the soft, slight bulge, so not Harry, and yet absolutely without a doubt Harry. Draco swallowed. Harry's navel, usually a deep hollow, had flattened down oddly from the inside, pressed outward by what lay just beneath his fingers. 

"That's why I came." Harry's voice was hushed. "To see if you—" He broke off.

Draco traced his palm over the heat of Harry's belly. Down around the curve to the top of his jeans, then back up. "What?"

Harry blanched and tugged at his coat. "God, Draco, you— it doesn't matter. This is coming out all, all wrong. Why am I even here?"

The last sentence was so low, so self-inflicted that Draco glanced up. He licked his lips, suddenly very uncertain. "Is it… Harry, is it mine?"

Harry looked at him and then away. "Of course it's— Who else would I—" He pressed a hand over his eyes.

Draco hesitated, then reached for Harry's hand. Pulled back. Harry was not looking at him.

The room was deathly quiet, except for the soft hitching of Harry's breath. Draco could not take his eyes away from the place where his hand rested. Harry shifted from one foot to the other and Draco finally drew his hand back and looked up. Harry's eyes, fixed on him, flicked suddenly away. He took a shudder of a breath and slid down the wall until he was sitting against it, knees tucked up to his chest. Draco took in his curled form through a haze.

"How long?" he whispered.

Harry's shoulders jumped and he took a deep breath. "Four months."

Draco's jaw dropped. "Four months?"

Harry nodded miserably. "I didn't _know_ four months ago, Dr— I… but then something was. _Wrong._ And I…"

Draco looked in the vicinity of Harry's abdomen, now hidden by his bent knees. He couldn't see it anymore, but Harry…looked different. He just… Draco inhaled slowly. He looked _different_. Somehow.

The last night, Harry had looked tired. He'd spoken of losing sleep, moved more slowly than usual, but Draco had thought nothing of it, and the sex had been as vibrant and vociferous as always. Now Draco could see his lover of that night as if he were right there in the room with them: dark hair splayed across the tangled sheets, lopsided smile curving a face paler than normal. Faint circles under his eyes. Harry had grabbed his hand and hissed, and Draco remembered slowing down for a moment, until Harry was too far gone to say anything except Draco's name. He could still feel the sweat on Harry's chest, the way his fingers had squeezed around his own. And he had been… that night, he hadn't known about… Draco shut his eyes.

"And then you left," he managed. He felt like he was choking.

"Oh, god, Draco, I—" Harry's voice was high-pitched, his words stumbling out in a rush. He thumped his head back on the wall, covering his face again. "I know it wasn't the best— I didn't mean to just _leave_. I'd only just found out that morning and I—"

"Panicked." Draco's own voice sounded hollow to him.

This time Harry's body shook with what he was holding in. He didn't even try to answer, just huddled quietly against the wall. Draco touched his knee. He noticed that Harry stilled, but didn't look up.

"Harry." Draco licked his lips. "Did I hurt you? That last night."

For an instant, Harry looked up, eyes wide. His cheeks coloured and he lowered his face again. Shook his head. "No. Draco… no."

"You were… that night, you were—"

"Yeah."

"How?" Draco asked, at a complete loss.

"It must have been that week when we were using all those… spells," Harry said into his knees. "The timing would be right."

Draco just blinked at him. Harry sighed.

"The combination. Or something. I told the Healer which—" He blushed again. "Which spells we used and she just got this look on her face…" Harry's lips quirked in a shy smile. He looked as if he were far away from the living room. Suddenly Draco wanted to keep that expression, hold it tight. He'd never seen it before and he was afraid he'd never see it again.

"Sex spells," he murmured, and Harry's eyes shifted to gaze at him, sidelong. "A lot of those were to enhance pleasure."

A small nod. "They're older than we thought. She said they're often used in conjunction with… birthing rituals. To ease the pain. To make it easier to conceive. To… well."

Draco nodded wordlessly and Harry watched him in equal silence. The air in the room pressed down on them. Harry's eyes searched his face, and then something flickered and he looked away, biting his lip. Draco wanted to speak. But he had absolutely no idea where to start anymore.

"So, but." Harry gathered himself, sniffing. He brushed a hand over his eyes and straightened slightly. "If you, if you wanted to… It's still early enough. I could have them—"

He wavered into silence. Draco stared at him, at the bright green eyes he'd fallen for and then hated the memory of, eyes that were not looking at him. Comprehension rose inside him like a slow flood. His breath caught in his throat. Something. He felt sick. Beaten about the insides.

"H… Harry," he muttered. "If you don't want—It's your body. You don't have to ask me."

"Yes, I do. He's yours, too."

Draco's heart skipped. "He?"

Finally Harry met his eyes. He nodded. "I went to St. Mungo's. Can you imagine going to a Muggle doctor about, about this?" It wasn't so much a laugh as it was a sob.

He made another effort to pull himself together. "I've thought about it for a long time. If you want to… then we— I can go get it taken care of."

Draco studied Harry carefully; his back, shivering almost imperceptibly; his hands, knuckles white over his knees. He was chewing his lip. "Harry… do you want to keep it?" he asked quietly. Curiously.

"I didn't. Not at first. I mean. I didn't mean for it to even _happen_. I didn't know it could." He wiped his eyes. "The first week, I almost— but now I…"

"Now you want to."

Harry's face was crumpling fast. His breathing began to quicken. "Oh god, Draco, I just wanted something from— from this. From. Us. After it was all over and you had gone—"

Draco grabbed Harry's arm before he could think about it. Harry jerked away and slid further into himself. Draco could barely speak around the lump in his throat. "You didn't even tell me though. You just left!"

"How was I to know if you'd—" It choked off and Harry pursed his lips, shutting his eyes tightly.

"Harry," Draco whispered, hands finding his face and caressing, trying to— He leaned in and met Harry's mouth fully, tilting his head. Harry gave a strangled sob and suddenly he was wrapped around him, kissing hard, tongue moving deeply, and there was wetness rubbing from his face to Draco's.

"Draco," he stammered into his mouth, hands sliding through his hair and down over his neck and shoulders. Squeezing. "I thought you'd—be so angry. That you wouldn't want me—"

Draco cut him off with a desperate, incoherent sound and pressed him tightly to his body. Harry even tasted different, tears mixing salt into the kiss, his helpless relief a strong spice in Draco's mouth. But underneath that he was— there was something— Draco could not describe it.

Harry broke the kiss with a tiny sigh and leaned into Draco's embrace, hands curled lightly up over his shoulders. Draco blinked rapidly. He couldn't quite— he nudged his nose against Harry's hair and stared at the wall over Harry's head. He hadn't expected to ever be this close to Harry again, not earlier that evening, and now he was _here_ , gods, he was… But…

Draco had to see.

He pressed Harry's body lightly back, and Harry looked at him, a small line of worry between his brows. Draco kept his eyes on Harry's as he parted his coat and eased his hand down. He lifted the hem of Harry's shirt slowly. Harry shivered.

"Mine?" His hand lay flat against Harry's bare stomach. Harry looked down and flushed. Swallowed. And nodded.

His… child. Growing inside of Harry. How…? Draco squeezed his eyes shut. It was so much all at once. He felt like he was going to burst.

He was too young to be a father. He was… gods, was he even thinking about this? He wasn't _made_ to be a parent! This couldn't happen to him; he hadn't even thought to consider such an impossible turn of events, ever, and yet here it was, staring him in the face.

When he looked up, Harry's eyes had gone overbright. His chin was trembling very slightly. Draco took a breath and eased Harry off his lap. He stood and helped Harry to his feet. Harry's fingers felt warm in his as he walked him down the hall to his bedroom. He could only see that far ahead: a soft mattress, clean sheets, and Harry, so tired.

Harry tried to pause in the doorway, but Draco took him by the shoulders and walked him to the bed. Harry wore a lost expression, forehead creased, eyes darting over Draco's face.

"Sit down," Draco said.

Harry settled on the end of the bed and stared at the carpet. His back was hunched, hands clasping each other tightly. Draco straightened and found he had no idea what to do. The room seemed to sway for an instant.

"You…" Draco licked his lips. His knees felt weak. "Harry, you need to eat something. And rest. You're so thin—"

Harry looked at him and there was a flicker in his eyes that made the rest of his face light with a vibrancy that shocked Draco to the core. It was _Harry_ , a facet of the man he'd fallen in l— Trying to bury itself so deeply—

Draco turned quickly to the door, stumbling a bit. "I'll get you something to eat."

He got two steps before Harry spoke. "Draco," on the edge of a breath, and so completely tattered. He spun around.

Harry's body sagged where he sat. His face was buried in his hands, and he was shaking. His shoulders hitched once, twice. Draco heard a ragged breath drawn and realized it was from his own throat. He moved without thought, needing to stop the raw ache lancing him. Draco dropped down on the bed and slid one of Harry's hands away from his face, lacing his fingers with his own.

"Shh, Harry, it's… I'll stay."

Harry curled against him. His arms came around Draco startlingly fast and Draco clutched at Harry's shoulder to steady them both. The scent of Harry's hair came to his nose and he made a small sound before he could stop himself. He missed it too much, it hurt, fuck, and Harry was here again and suddenly Draco hated the sight of it, of him shaking, brought to the end of his rope, so strong and aloof, never needing the presence of anyone else until this moment, and then breaking apart into tiny fragments right here in front of him. In his arms.

Draco bent his head and pressed his lips into Harry's hair, inhaling deeply. He lifted Harry's face until he was kissing his forehead. Harry swallowed audibly and Draco felt the soft sweep of breath over his chin. Harry raised his head, brushing his lips against Draco's as he did so, and it was all Draco could do not to yank him against his chest right then. He settled for the trembling touch of Harry's mouth, again, again, until Harry's breaths became whimpers and his mouth opened suddenly, and Draco was kissing him, hard, hard, oh gods, deep, as if he'd never kissed him before or never would again. Harry's hands climbed frantically over his back, his neck, curling into his hair. Draco tilted his head and Harry's mouth fell open with a gentle shudder, tongue stroking his, and Draco's body knew this all too well, and welcomed it. 

Harry's fingers dipped between his trousers and his skin and Draco pulled back, struggling to breathe. Harry was staring down, breathing hard, fingers poised like quivering birds. Draco grasped Harry's hips gently and pulled him closer.

"Harry. Can we…"

Harry's eyes darted to his and he nodded. "Just be gentle."

Draco hesitated, one hand against Harry's coat. He could feel the jerk of his breathing. Harry's face was flushed. Draco leaned forward, pressing with his palm, and Harry inched up on the bed. Green eyes met his and dropped again. Draco concentrated on Harry's coat, sliding it over his shoulders, pushing it off and aside. Harry's fingers grazed the buttons of his shirt, hovering momentarily over each one before slipping them free. Draco heard the soft thunk of shoes hitting the floor. He glanced down and saw Harry's toes curling inside gray socks.

Draco's mouth went dry. Harry's body, once all muscles and sinews, looked suddenly frail, covered by the white weave of his jumper, his battered jeans. His own hands, inching the sweater up over Harry's chest, finding the familiar curves of his waist and hips, looked too hard, too heavy. Far too indelicate. He was suddenly afraid he would hurt Harry, and that he would hurt… hurt the… Draco swallowed.

Harry tugged his jumper over his head and worked at Draco's clothing slowly, and all Draco could see was the shallow depression above Harry's collarbone, the slight swell just beneath his ribs. Harry was wearing boxers under his jeans, loose and easily kicked away. He took a moment to shed his own trousers, to tug off Harry's socks, and Harry kissed him tentatively, almost chastely. He lowered himself on his elbows with a soft breath and ran a hand up Draco's forearm.

Draco's stomach was churning. He moved forward, and Harry's bare legs bent into a cradle around his hips. Harry adjusted his body under Draco's, looking up at him with liquid eyes. Draco touched Harry's chest, feeling the rapid pulse beating under his fingers, and traced down to Harry's stomach.

He froze. 

"Draco?" So quiet. Weighted.

He couldn't picture having sex with Harry. He _could_ , gods, his mind was running away with it, chasing what he had no idea he'd missed so much. He wanted Harry. So badly. But he couldn't see himself lying atop him, pushing into him. What if he… His hand brushed over Harry's belly and he drew back quickly.

Harry's eyes were much too bright suddenly. "Do you not want to—?"

Draco shook his head. "Harry. I want you to be on top."

Harry looked at him for a moment, then nodded and rolled over. He knelt on the bed, waiting while Draco moved back, and then crawled over his hips and settled, rubbing his hands over his own thighs nervously. Draco touched his waist, pulled him closer. 

"What about spells?"

Harry shook his head. "It's fine."

Still Draco chose carefully, finding his trousers with one hand and working his wand free. He cast wordlessly and felt Harry shift across his hips as the charm took effect. He touched Harry's chest, and then could not seem to stop his hand from wandering over the contours there. With his other hand he eased Harry closer and began preparing him.

The deep hooding of Harry's eyes told him when he was ready. Draco settled back on the bed, heart jumping in his chest, and guided Harry down as gently as he could. Harry's mouth fell open and a soft cry came out. Draco shut his eyes, unprepared for the intense heat. Had he forgotten so quickly?

Harry nodded to him, breathing hard, hands pressed against Draco's chest. It was too much, too long. Draco thrust upward, and Harry's eyes squeezed shut in a grimace. 

"Not so deep," he gasped. "Draco, it—"

"Okay." He eased himself back, shaking. He could feel sweat dripping down his face. He wanted to move, wanted Harry to move. But not if… "Harry."

Green eyes opened, looking fogged. Harry's thighs tensed around Draco's waist. He bit his lip, lifting himself and settling again with a gasp, and Draco dropped his head back to the bed, seeing white sparks. He squeezed Harry's hips, felt him swivel them in an arc, and groaned wordlessly. Harry was looking down at him.

"Draco?" he whispered breathlessly.

Draco shook his head, nearly past the point of coherency. He helped Harry into a rhythm, using his thighs to roll Harry's hips forward until his lover's mouth went slack. His hands drifted down Harry's thighs, then up over the gentle curve of his stomach. He had to touch him, he had— had to— "Harry—" 

The new curve of Harry's belly fit perfectly under his hands. His skin there was pale next to the tan of his arms and legs, and soft as powder. Soft as he remembered. Draco could not stop touching it, stroking Harry's stomach. Holding Harry's waist between his hands and staring at the arc of skin.

Harry's face turned away momentarily, and when it turned back, sweat had run down his cheeks. Draco caressed Harry's belly as he rose and fell against him, and the sounds his lover made grew more desperate. Harry leaned toward him, bracing himself with hands on either side of Draco's head, and Draco turned and mouthed his right arm, watching the muscles there shake. He slid his hands up Harry's sides and around to cup his shoulders. Muscles knotted and relaxed with each movement, and Harry stole a kiss, dipping into Draco's mouth with a lengthy whimper that Draco did not know how to read, save for the neediness in it. 

The kiss ended as soon as it started, with Harry throwing his head up, trying to find air. Draco clutched Harry's sides, rose up as much as he could. He touched his mouth to Harry's throat and fell back onto the bed as Harry's hips thrust against his, deeper.

Something was building in him, differently charged; he'd never spoken those words during sex, but he could see them rising in his mind, just as Harry curled forward again, a helpless, exquisite expression on his face, and buried his nose into Draco's shoulder. Draco fought down the words. His hands ran over sweat-slicked skin along the contours of Harry's back. Harry bent over Draco, eyes squeezed tight, gasping into his shoulder, and Draco felt something give way in his chest.

"You're beautiful," he choked out, and Harry shuddered violently, bonelessly, forehead pressed into the hollow of Draco's throat, damp and heated. His body tensed completely and he came, curled over Draco's body. Draco thrust up once, rolling his hips, thrust again, and came as well, clutching Harry's still-quivering body to him.

Harry's climax lasted several seconds, and he shuddered limply against Draco's body, his gasps going ragged. Draco stroked his back slowly, turned his face into Harry's hair, and murmured things even he did not understand into the soft flesh of his throat. At last Harry quieted, breathing hard, and Draco felt, for the first time, the new tautness of Harry's abdomen pressed against his own. 

"Are you alright?" he whispered when he could speak. Harry nodded slowly, not looking at him, still pressed into the slope of his shoulder. Draco splayed his hands over Harry's back and shut his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.

It was a long moment before Harry moved. Draco sought his wand again where it had fallen in the bedclothes, and spelled them both clean. Harry climbed off him awkwardly, and bent on his elbows and knees on the bed next to him. He was not looking at Draco. Draco lifted a hand to caress his side and Harry shuddered. His toes were clenched again.

"Here." Carefully, Draco eased Harry onto his side, facing away from him. Harry turned his head, muscles stiffening under Draco's fingers. Draco said nothing, only curled himself around Harry's back and slid an arm over his chest. He rested his head in the crook of Harry's neck and inhaled deeply against his skin. Harry's pulse beat rapidly under his cheek. Draco nuzzled him, and felt Harry's body begin to relax in tiny hitches. He reached down and pulled the duvet up over them, taking care to tuck it over Harry's shoulders, thinking suddenly of the cooling air of the room. One of Harry's hands came up and clasped his where it rested against his chest. Draco breathed along with him, and let himself doze.

* * *

He was drifting when Harry's body tensed, every muscle tightening. Draco opened his eyes, heart tripping in his chest. He lifted his head, clutching instinctively at his lover's body.

"Harry?" His voice was still muddled. He could see Harry's profile against the pillows. "What's wrong?"

For a moment Harry did not move. He had a peculiar expression on his face, eyes turned toward the ceiling, but far away. His hand found Draco's where it lay pocketed by the warmth of his body and slid it down to rest over the curve of his belly, pressing it there. Draco frowned and opened his mouth—

There was a frail movement, like the wings of a moth just under his fingertips. Draco caught his breath. He stared down into the dark space between the duvet and Harry's body. The movement came again and Draco's breath left him in a sigh. 

It could have been seconds, or minutes; Draco lost track. The tiny flicker of motion held every nerve on end. He blinked, found himself looking at the wall, and lowered his gaze.

Harry was watching him, head turned on the pillow. His eyes were wide in the dim light. Brow creased. He licked his lips, took a shallow breath, and stared up at Draco. He could feel the nervous stillness of Harry's body. His eyes glimmered and Draco understood.

He met Harry's gaze for a long moment, studying the quivering of his chin, then bent and pressed a soft kiss to Harry's lips. An exhalation skated over his mouth. Draco kissed him again, holding his gaze. Harry gave a tiny sigh and nodded. Draco pressed his face back into the crook of Harry's neck, moving his lips over the smooth skin there. He shut his eyes and felt for the movement under their fingertips again.

~tbc~


	2. The Thought of It Otherwise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the Healer leaves Draco taking stock of his options.

"Mr Malfoy." The Healer sat back in her chair, her body in a state of relaxation that must have come from the consistency of her profession. It was a far cry from how Draco was interpreting the situation. "There are several important pieces of information we must discuss."

Draco could feel his eyes narrowing. He glanced toward the closed door, and then turned back to face the woman. "Is this discussion standard for your patients?"

The woman's eyebrows lifted behind silver-rimmed spectacles. "In my line of work, Mr Malfoy."

Draco studied the Healer. She was older than he, perhaps in her forties, with graying hair about her temples. He was still undecided about her; she carried an air of professionalism like a comfortable cloak, and he suspected she was the type to become agitated by incompetence. But he'd only met her today, heard her speak just long enough to welcome them both and then direct Harry through the door to his appointment.

Oh, but Draco was already decided on the Healer's assistant. He had been from the very moment the door opened, spilling her into the office. Blasted girl; a petite brunette… she'd immediately fixed her doe eyes on Harry, wide and astonished. Still a teenager, just out of Hogwarts. Draco could almost hear the hushed admiration waiting to flood from her lips. The questions she had no business asking.

The look she had turned on _him_ an instant later had been just as wide-eyed, even more nervous, and had made him itch to grab his wand.

That morning, Draco had come into Harry's bedroom, still damp from his shower, to find him sitting on the bed, both hands pressed against the soft curve of his stomach. His shirt was raised, wrinkling down over the tops of his hands, and Harry did not notice him for a long, long moment. His fingers stroked up once, trembled; Harry looked up and saw him watching. He flushed and smoothed his shirt into place again. Draco found himself wondering how much longer Harry could go out in public.

The truth was… Draco did not like having Harry out of his sight anymore. He frowned at the Healer where she sat behind her desk. "If she says _anything_ to him, so help me—"

"She won't," the woman cut in cleanly, a frown of her own marring her features. Her eyes flicked to the door. "We have very strict regulations concerning our patients. All of them."

Draco studied the doctor silently. She met his gaze without blinking, and he found himself wondering if she would begin to fidget eventually. Doubting it. "Perhaps Harry should be here for this."

She shook her head. "No, Mr Malfoy, this is something I must discuss with you. Harry has already heard everything I am about to say."

Draco took a measured breath. He clasped his hands in his lap and looked coolly at her from across the desk. "Go ahead."

"Was this a planned pregnancy?"

Draco drew back before he could stop himself. He frowned at his hands. "Hardly."

She nodded, the faintest of smiles appearing on her face. "I'm sorry for the impertinence of the question, but you must understand that it is necessary for Harry's treatment that I know."

Draco pursed his lips. "I can provide you with a list of the spells we were… using at the time. If necessary."

"Harry has already done so, but thank you. Actually, I'm far more concerned with your personal opinion of the situation."

Draco drew himself up, stifling a surge of annoyance. "Is that a fact?"

She merely looked at him, waiting. He exhaled through gritted teeth. "Are you asking my opinion of the situation, or of Harry? If you're so curious to know how I feel about him, then please, stop beating around the bush and just ask." He leaned forward and tilted his head. "I don't enjoy interrogations. I'd rather argue my feelings for him out in the open, if you don't mind."

The Healer removed her glasses and folded them on the desktop. Draco was startled to see a sad warmth in her expression. "In my opinion, Mr Malfoy, your feelings for Harry are not in question. You would not be here if they were. My concern is not whether you care for him, but..." She paused. "…how _deeply_ you care for him."

"I don't… understand."

She breathed out, a quick huff. "This is my field of choice and it is by no means an unpopular one, for patients and physicians alike. But frankly, the male body is not built for or equipped to handle a pregnancy." The doctor's lips twisted sardonically. "If it were, all of this would not be necessary."

Draco digested her words. It was nothing he had been unaware of, but her candor was refreshing. "How often do you encounter this situation?"

"Often enough to base my practice around it. It's not quite as unusual as one would think. Not in the wizarding community, anyway. There are spells, as you are well aware, as well as potions, but I will come to that in a moment."

Draco said nothing. The Healer continued.

"Harry has already been informed as to what he can expect over the next few months. However, the reality of it is a different thing entirely." She lowered her head to peer at him over the tops of her spectacles. It was not a condescending look, but rather an intuitive one. "Harry wants this baby, Mr Malfoy. But he is going to need help." 

Draco plucked at his trouser leg for a long, uncomfortable moment, and then forced himself to be still. "I am not going to leave him to deal with it alone, if that's what you're worried about," he ground out.

"Draco." Her voice was as soft as stroking feathers. He looked up and found her watching him with the same pensive stare she had worn before. "You're going to have a difficult task. I will not sugarcoat it for you."

"I don't want it sugarcoated, I assure you."

There was debate behind her eyes. But she spoke nonetheless.

"I don't know how much he has told you about the first few months. Harry was unaware of the pregnancy until the third month, which is very common when conception is caused by spell-usage, as in this case. You see, Draco," she said, folding her hands on her desk, "at three months, Harry's immune system began treating the fetus as a foreign body, attempting to rid itself of the invading cells. Essentially, the baby was making him sick."

Draco blinked, remembering Harry's gaunt appearance, the way his coat had hung from his frame like so much loose drapery. He'd been so very pale. Draco touched his lip with one finger. "Then why has it stopped?"

"Initially, it was the spell combination you used that did it. Three spells in particular, with the side-effect of sexual pleasure" - Draco stiffened - "but designed in ancient times to assist in difficult or impossible conceptions. The spells themselves uphold the pregnancy until the mother's own body takes over."

"How long does that last?"

"The spells you used have already been long defunct."

Draco's head shot up. "Then how—"

She held up one hand. "When Harry came in the first time, he was suffering from the first stages of the spell disintegration. His body was fighting what had been done to it, in the only way it knew how. There was little time before it succeeded; unlike in the case of women, the male body is not allowed to inform itself of its own condition. The spells essentially conceal the pregnancy from anything that might harm the fetus. Harry's own body had no idea what was making it sick."

The Healer straightened, and her manner became more placid. "I informed him of his situation, his alternatives, and then gave him two weeks to decide upon a course of action. Our practice provided him with the information he would need to decide, as well as counseling. I urged him to speak to you, to include you in the decision, but in the end, the choice was up to Harry."

Draco nodded, closing his eyes. He could still see the wretched look on Harry's face, that night in the dim light of his living room. Steeled, masking the dread just beneath the surface. And then he'd opened his mouth and said—

"He didn't actually say it. But he wanted…" Draco rubbed his forehead. 

"And what do you want, Draco?"

He sighed. "I… I felt it. Move. I felt _him_. But Harry didn't say if… He gave me the option of—ending it."

She nodded as if he had given her all the answer she needed. "I've started him on temporary sustaining potions. They are harmless, and easily reversible should he change his mind before the end of this month, but they do give you both a bit more leeway to consider your options."

"And after that?"

The Healer's face sobered and Draco was struck by how weary she looked. "At the beginning of the sixth month, those potions will no longer be potent enough to sustain either the pregnancy or Harry's health. He will need to begin a new series of treatments, which will continue right up until the birth."

They had… a contingency plan. For pregnant men. Draco pushed the sense of absurdity down even as it rose in his mind, an indignant instinct. "What sorts of potions?"

"They are some of the most astounding, most troublesome potions I have ever come across as a Healer." For the first time, Draco thought he saw wariness in her gaze. Her eyes darted… she was no longer looking directly at him. "They work together, given at precise intervals, to give the fetus protection inside the parent's body, and the appropriate space to grow."

Draco frowned; uneasiness niggled at him. He shook himself inwardly. "And how is this done, exactly?"

"The potions are similar in design to Dislocative magic."

A beat. And then Draco was nearly out of his seat before he stopped himself, clutching the chair arms hard enough to hurt his fingers. "A displacement spell? On a human _body?_ "

The Healer nodded once, her piercing gaze never drifting from his face. "Yes."

Draco grimaced, felt his expression twisting out of his control. "Isn't that dangerous?"

She stared at him and her eyes flickered. "Yes," she said in a softer voice.

The air grew close in the small office. Draco stared back at the Healer, one hand hovering halfway to his mouth. A displacement spell. Dislocative _magic_. As if Harry's body were the Knight Bus, easing itself around Muggle cars on a crowded street. 

And… _Apparition_. 

Dislocative magic was temporary, at best. It was designed to be. Unsteady in the best of circumstances. Draco took a deep breath. "What are you saying, exactly?"

The steadiness of the Healer's posture told him she had carried on this conversation before. It threaded into him unexpectedly, and he drew another breath.

"I do not mean you to misunderstand, Mr Malfoy. This, dealing with this sort of situation, is by no means novel. You would be surprised by how many of today's wizarding children were born of two men."

"There are many, then?"

She smiled faintly, as if preoccupied. "No. But you would still be surprised by the number."

Draco nodded absently. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of that sort of magic at work in Harry's body. The body he touched at night, half asleep, the consciousness resting behind those green eyes. The… baby… that shifted and wiggled under the skin of Harry's belly. 

His stomach twisted. 

"Are there any side-effects?"

All the accessibility slid out of the doctor's face, replaced by a worried look. She seemed to have aged before his eyes.

"There are several, Draco. And that is why I must say what I'm about to say." 

The corners of her eyes pinched with resignation. She leaned over her desk. "If there is any chance that Harry may forgo the treatments, or that you may let them slide in an effort to help him, then I must advise you to convince Harry to terminate the pregnancy immediately."

Draco's mouth was as dry as cotton. His stomach gave another sickening roll.

"As it stands now, Harry is taking temporary potions to sustain the pregnancy. They will work up until the end of the fifth month and then the final series of potions must begin, or the pregnancy must be terminated." She was watching him carefully. Draco could not find his voice. They were nearing the end of the fourth month already.

He blinked. _They?_

"Draco, I can tell you from years of experience that this procedure is safe. I have aided in the successful birth of many wizard-born children. But like any birth, to a woman or a man, it requires constant attention and a great deal of patience to see it through. The treatments are such that, once begun, will need to continue unabated until the birth." 

The Healer paused. "It will be painful for him, Draco. In many ways."

Draco studied his hands, then looked up at her. "Tell me what will happen."

She nodded approvingly. "Quite simply, his body will attempt to reject the fetus as soon as the temporary potions wear off. He will experience cramping. His body will ache. He may develop a very slight fever. This is not a constant state; it depends on the progression of the pregnancy and the health of the father."

She rose from her desk and walked to a small cabinet near the door. Draco heard the clink of glass. "The first time this happens, you must begin a strict potions regimen. And then you both must stick to the schedule for the treatment to be effective."

Draco caught sight of small vials in her hands. "Are they painkillers, then?"

She shut the cabinet and returned to her desk. "I will provide you with several mild potions for pain that can be given in addition to the three main potions. Direct spell usage is not recommended to relieve pain, but there has been little proof to suggest any true connection between magic and lasting effects on the child."

She sat down and hesitated. Her face was changing, tottering between separate emotions, and suddenly she looked truly vulnerable. When she spoke, it was almost secretive. "Draco… I feel I am being very unfair to you personally in this matter. This will take a great toll on you, and it goes far beyond the simple administration of potions."

The look on her face made him feel sick again. He held her gaze, only just managing to keep from moving. "Go on."

"In a sense, I will be helping Harry to become ill, and then not only asking you to treat him, but to sit and _watch_ him be in pain. It is an unfair demand for me to make of you, but it is the truth."

Draco said nothing. She went on with a sigh. "You may have to wait for days at a time while he is in pain before you can give him the potion that will ease it. Watching a loved one suffer, especially when you hold the very thing that can cure him in your hands, is a difficult thing to do. I am being frank about this because I believe you will keep the larger picture in mind, whether that picture is Harry or the baby."

Draco looked up sharply, heart thudding in his chest, but she only returned his gaze until he turned away. Three innocuous little bottles sat on the desk in front of him. He reached out and picked up the nearest: tar black. As if he were holding a small pot of ink in his hand.

Harmless looking. "How will I contact you?"

The doctor lifted her chin, adjusting her glasses over her nose. "There are several spells I'll be casting on Harry that will alert me to any significant danger to his health. You may Floo call my office or home, but unless I am attending to another emergency, I will arrive promptly, and on my own."

She folded her hands. "It is absolutely imperative, Draco, that he be consistent with his treatment." Her voice had gone low and earnest. Draco caught her eye again. "You must help him remember when and how much."

"And if…" Draco found he could not continue. His throat had gone bone dry.

"If he fails even once to take the correct potion at the correct time, Harry's body will turn on itself, and the baby." Her voice became grave. "There is the chance that Harry will die. It's something you both must prepare for."

It was a sudden, sharp pain, as if he'd been struck in the head. Or the gut. Draco winced and pursed his lips, but the idea would not leave. It seemed to be cementing itself in his mind, carving out hollows and troughs. Draco struggled for a long, breathless moment before it faded.

"Have you told Harry this?" he croaked out, and then grew furious with himself for the wavering of his voice.

The Healer nodded. "Yes." Her hand came out, fingers brushing against his arm, and Draco jumped. 

"I don't want you to worry unduly. Death… even the chance of serious illness is extremely small. But Harry's condition is not to be treated lightly, and I believe it wisest that you know all possible outcomes."

Draco set his jaw and looked her right in the eye. "What do _you_ predict will happen?"

"Harry is a healthy young man, intelligent, and unlike many of my other patients, he has someone who is willing to help him. I believe his pregnancy will go smoothly. As smoothly as it can go."

Draco wondered if women listened to this sort of thing upon learning they were pregnant. Did they leave the Healer's office reassured, then return home and silently ponder how many things could go wrong?

But then. Their bodies were usually capable of childbearing by nature. Harry's was not. Draco resisted the urge to rub his temples. "As smoothly as it can go? Just how smoothly is that?"

The Healer's brow wrinkled; she sat back. "It won't be what you might have come to expect from a pregnancy; Harry is not female, and therefore there are obvious allowances to be made in terms of normality. It may be an odd concept to grasp for a time, Draco, but you must treat this pregnancy almost as you would an illness. Harry will not want to eat. You'll need to make sure he gets enough food for himself and the baby. He'll be restless at times, and quite lethargic at others. And some of the time, he will be his normal, energetic self. It really is a subjective thing."

Draco studied the Healer for a moment, considering. "What about…" He shut his eyes briefly and opened them again. "What about intimacy?"

If the question surprised her, she did not indicate it. "Intimacy is fine, though you will need to defer to Harry's energy level. He may not be up to anything especially taxing. And you may not be either."

Draco felt a bit vague around the edges, and strangely surprised that he wasn't more embarrassed by this line of questioning. He studied the three vials on the desk in front of him, but didn't really see them. They were shapes in a haze, carrying an uneasy aura about them, but it was only a dull prickle in his mind. He was aware of the Healer watching him through hooded eyes; it seemed unreal, as if he'd stepped outside himself. 

The clock ticked on the wall, and they sat in silence. Draco took a deep breath, let it out, and then went back to the beginning of their discussion in his mind.

* * *

It was dark and the wind had turned chilly when Harry let them into his flat, struggling with the key for a moment before shoving the door open. He turned and ran a hand through his hair as Draco followed him in. His mouth opened, but in the end, he simply gave a weak smile and led the way to the living room. 

"Do you mind… I need to get some things. And I'd like a shower."

Draco nodded. He watched Harry pad up the stairs. In his long coat, he looked… normal. As if none of this had happened, and Draco would follow him upstairs once he'd removed his own coat, and end up flat on his back in Harry's bed, seeing his lover through the warm buzz of rum and vodka from the club. Harry would grin at him, suck hard on the juncture of his shoulder and throat, and whisper about the sandy-blond they'd seen on the dance floor, the sexy one in vinyl and netted shirt, just to rile Draco into that growl he liked so much. Draco would grab his arm. Flip him over. Bite at his ear and thrust against him until Harry couldn't speak for moaning. Let Harry roll him over and take him if he wanted to, in the end. 

Draco's stomach ached; he felt bereft. When was the last time Harry had topped? Pushed him against the nearest wall and demanded things he was only too willing to give, regardless of how he groused between kisses? Woken him in the night with half-whispers and roving hands? He couldn't even remember, but his body sought for the sensation, even as he stood in the darkness of the front hallway: the sense of being filled, from above or below. His eyes tracked Harry's progress up the stairs. His lover stopped just beyond the landing and looked back. His face was troubled when he turned away and continued up, out of sight.

The flat was silent except for the mute hush of Muggle cars in the street below. Draco sat on the sofa in the darkness and pictured Harry rummaging through drawers in the room above, one hand straying perhaps to his stomach as he threw clothing onto the bed, as he undressed—

The shower started up, water rushing through the pipes upstairs. Draco rubbed a hand over his face, and forced his eyes open, inhaling sharply. Blue shadows and gray light took the place of what his closed eyes showed him: Harry's face the night he'd returned, as shaded as the walls of his flat, and one hand clutching repeatedly at the hem of his coat. Except this time Draco could clearly see the weariness, the sickly tint around Harry's eyes.

Was it really a memory? Or a conjuring of his own imagination?

Harry's words that morning, when Draco had watched him from the doorway - mere hours ago - floated out of his memory and hung in the air as if spoken aloud. _Shouldn't take too long. You don't have to wait for me. I mean, if you… The Healer just wants to talk to you for a few minutes._

Draco rose and made his way up the stairs. Harry's bedroom door stood open, light streaming into the short hallway. Draco could see an overnight bag on the bed, the sleeve of a red shirt dangling from the opening. Across the hall, steam rolled from under the bathroom door. Draco faced it, one hand poised just above the knob. He heard the splash of water within, the drumming of droplets on tile and skin.

He entered as quietly as he could. The warm wall of air curled gently over his flesh. Draco shed his clothing slowly, feeling dazed. Harry's outline was a pale peach against the misted glass of the shower door. Draco gazed along the front of Harry's body until he saw the light bulge at his abdomen, indistinct beyond the fog.

He eased the shower door open and stepped inside to find Harry standing with his back to him, letting the water rush over his face. He started when Draco touched his waist, and half turned, slipping on the slick floor of the shower. Draco's hands came out almost on their own and steadied him, gripping his hips. One of Harry's palms pressed against his forearm, and his lover gave a soft sigh. Fingers squeezed.

"Scared me," Harry murmured.

Draco said nothing, only tilted his head, intent on the wet arch of the other man's back. He traced his right hand around to Harry's front, fingertips sliding along the soft bulge there. He lingered for a moment, thumb dipping into Harry's navel, before returning to his lover's hip.

Harry dropped his eyes to the floor and worried the bar of soap with both hands. "Sorry, I… Only be a minute, then I'll finish packing and we can go."

Draco's voice was not present, not in his chest or throat, or even in this steaming, wet room. In this city, country. He watched Harry's hands move over his shoulders, leaving translucent trails of suds in their wake. Under the hot water, Harry's skin was flushed a rosy pink, healthy and alive. The thought of it otherwise was revolting and horrific.

Draco reached out, gently taking the soap from the other man, and Harry stilled, looking at him with a curious, nervous glint in his eyes. Draco ruffled the soap into bubbles and turned Harry toward him until he could touch his chest, run his hands over the warm skin there, feel the blood beating through the body in front of him. Water sluiced down Harry's body and Draco followed it with his eyes.

"Harry, do you really want to go through with this?" he asked softly.

Harry jerked a tiny bit, and Draco's hands stopped moving. Tanned fingers rose and touched rounded belly, then fell away. "Don't you?" Harry said, too quickly. 

Draco looked up and met his gaze, and everything around them went quiet. Harry's eyes were speaking to him, a desperate question there, a yearning plea in whorling green. A _want_. And a fear. So much fear, of so many different things. Draco's stomach lurched as it hit him yet again… that everything he had been told, Harry had been told, too.

But one fear, he could lay to rest, at least. He stroked upward along the curves of Harry's sides and down again with both hands, and his lover gave a shiver despite the hot water. Draco nodded, without words, and began to rub soap over Harry's skin once more.

"Don't think I've taken such a long shower in a while." A timid laugh followed Harry's words, hushed in the heavy air. Draco said nothing, taking his time with the body that had produced such a small sound. Harry fidgeted under his ministrations, and Draco caught his eyes darting away. Harry ran a hand through his hair, shaking water drops out.

"You can stay tonight. If you want to, I mean." He gestured toward the bathroom door through the steam and fogged glass. 

Draco stared in that direction, already feeling the tug in his innards, the one reminding him of how badly he slept when his bed held only him these days. It was hard to pinpoint, like a gnawing hunger that he couldn't define; couldn't figure out what food he needed to eat in order to be sated. Harry was hunger, and satiation as well, but now Harry was much more than that. He was fear, black and roiling and everywhere Draco turned because, Merlin, what he was going to say next was only going to cement that fear in his chest and lungs and gut for a long, long time.

"I want you to move in," he said, very quietly. He stared at Harry's stomach, the hitch of startled breathing. Fingers grazed his face. 

"You… what?"

"We'll stay. Here, tonight. But tomorrow, I want—" He stopped, wondering if he had failed, if he needed to go on and explain his failure, to think, to see what was coming, to _hope_ , fucking hell, what was the point of hoping, but he was doing it already and he couldn't look up. 

But Harry only nodded. His hands came up to Draco's back and pressed Draco against him. A damp chin touched his shoulder, a cheek settled there, hot breath on his neck, and Harry nodded again.

~tbc~


	3. Over the Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's sleepless nights are getting worse.

Clink.

The small pool of lamplight shone yellow down onto Draco's hands. The rest of the room was washed in thick darkness. He looked up, saw the rumple of blankets over his knees; the blackness swallowed everything beyond. Beside him, Harry curled against the pillow, his back a warm weight along Draco's thigh. Asleep again, finally. The soft whisper of his breathing was the only sound Draco could hear. That, and…

Clink.

Draco turned the small bottles over in his palm, and the glass gleamed back in feeble, iridescent shimmers.

_Pay special attention to the scent of each._

The bottles lolled back and forth over his palm. He could still smell garlic faintly in the air. Harry sighed in his sleep.

Clink.

* * *

"You sure you're alright?"

Harry gave a tired snort and narrowed his eyes. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Draco carded his fingers through Harry's hair. The baby was moving again; he could feel it through his other palm, flat over Harry's stomach. Tiny, insistent flutters beneath the skin. Harry murmured soft, wordless, surprised sounds with each kick. Draco mouthed Harry's lower lip, kissed it gently, covered it with his own mouth and sucked, light and long. Harry's hand climbed into his hair, stroking through the strands lazily, lulling him down again and again. Gentle, languorous flickers of tongue against his lips and teeth. Draco caught his breath this time for Harry's quick thrust, deep into his mouth, caressing his tongue and drawing it out. He went, fell into it, did not try to stop the groan that accompanied the fall. He tilted his head, caught Harry's lips again, and his lover lifted his head from the pillow with a dazed whimper.

Draco kissed him soundly. Harry's lips opened under his, slightly chapped and soft and slick all at once. His tongue tasted of mint. Draco recognized it; toothpaste. Nothing underneath. He drew out of the kiss, licking his lips. Harry followed him upward, nipping at his mouth, and Draco raised himself out of reach.

"Did you eat?" he murmured.

Harry closed his eyes and lay back with a groan. His stomach muscles clenched slightly; the tiniest of grimaces flitted across his face. "Yes. Yes, of course I ate. You were there."

Draco trailed his tongue over his own teeth. He could taste nothing but mint. "Harry—"

"I did," Harry broke in. He touched Draco's chin and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I promise I ate."

Draco raised his head, just in time to find Harry's mouth against his once more. He exhaled and stroked one hand over his lover's shoulder, feeling each pull of muscle. Harry's body rocked gently forward, against his side. One leg slipped up and curled itself around his hip. Draco could feel Harry's foot drifting up and down the back of his leg. Toes clenched on the peak of the kiss, and Draco pulled back to find green eyes clouded and vague, blinking at him. Harry breathed, heavy, rapid pants that lifted the hair on Draco's arms. He shivered. Felt the warm swell of Harry's belly beneath his stomach. Another flutter.

Draco shifted back and looked down at where his hand rested against Harry's abdomen. He felt the other man's breath hitch; fingers clenched almost unnoticeably around his arm. 

"Is he always this active?" he asked quietly.

"More than usual tonight." Harry stirred abruptly. Cleared his throat. "Is this— Are you—"

Draco met his eyes. Deep green. He wondered if the baby would have those eyes. 

"No." He bent and kissed Harry tenderly, feeling his mouth open hesitantly to the touch. There was a longing in that kiss, and he wasn't sure who it was coming from. "It's fine, Harry."

His lover gazed at him for a long, tremulous instant, then Harry's hand had inched down, felt for him between his legs. Draco hissed and sought air, and Harry kissed his throat almost chastely as he stroked him.

Suddenly Harry let out a groan. His hand pulled away. "No— no, it's no use, I'm sorry."

Draco drew a deep, difficult breath. He moved back off of Harry; the other man gave a weak groan and curled slightly onto his side. Draco watched Harry wrap one arm loosely around his abdomen. His own body floundered; waves of almost-pain pooled in his groin. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, willing the pressure to subside. He bit his lip a little too hard and clenched his toes at the burst of real pain. "You alright?"

Harry's eyes were closed. One hand rubbed small circles over his stomach, trembling as it swept down the curve. "Just… hurts. What day is it?"

Draco propped himself on one elbow and watched the slow, steady circling of Harry's hand. "It's too soon, Harry."

Harry nodded too fast, grimacing. Draco watched for a moment longer, feeling the dull ache in his loins, and then slipped his hand under Harry's body and began to knead his back in tight, firm strokes. Harry's eyes flew open and darted to his, and then he rolled gingerly, cupping his palm around the gentle bulge of his belly.

"Feels like I've been kicked in the stomach," he muttered. Draco said nothing. His irritation was brief and fading already; each breath swept more of the poisonous tendrils away. Harry's skin felt damp under his fingers. His eyes had taken on that shadowed look that Draco was beginning to associate with the end of the week. Harry's breathing hitched again.

"Still moving?" Draco asked.

Harry nodded jerkily. "The more he moves, the… more it hurts. Always like this."

Draco touched Harry's forehead, and his lover suddenly opened his eyes and took a quick breath. His eyes roved Draco's body. "I… Draco, do you want me to…"

He found a half-smile somewhere and shook his head. "Not much use anymore."

Harry lay back with a groan. "Tomorrow, Draco. I promise."

Yes, tomorrow. He frowned, listening to Harry's shallow breathing. Tomorrow they _would_ most likely finish what was started; Harry's weekly dose would be fresh enough for the next four nights, if they wanted.

* * * 

The hardwood creaked under Draco's bare feet. He padded down the hall, and the silence of the house folded itself around him. He could feel the cool plaster of the wall beneath his fingertips. The air was almost too cold down his bare back, shifting over his arms and prickling the hairs there.

Ivory-blue light spilled in jagged stripes across the hallway from the bathroom doorway, lending a strange, ethereal glow to the room beyond. Draco's fingers found the smooth rise of the doorjamb, and for just an instant, he paused, uncertain of his footing. The tiles in the shower shone under the bright moonlight from outside, and the mirror gleamed, a large, dark hole in the wall. Draco shut his eyes, opened them, and stepped over the threshold.

The tiny cupboard door opened with a squeal that grated on his ears. Draco rubbed at the back of his neck.

_Three potions._

He could almost hear the Healer's voice cascading off the cold tile in the milky moonlight. _Pay special attention to the scent of each. The knowledge will become invaluable to you._

Draco lifted his left hand and stared at the three tiny bottles there. Almost without conscious thought, he uncorked the first vial and raised it to his nose, sniffing delicately. Years of potions classes had taught him the dangers of breathing deeply over strange mixtures. A full array of flavors hit his senses, but this time he did not gag, as he had in the Healer's office. The color was impossible to discern in the odd light, but he remembered dark amber. Opaque.

_To be taken on the first night of each month._

Draco mouthed his own words from weeks ago. _Smells like garlic and anise. Predominantly._

_Those cover the less inviting odors. The Titus Cirrus Elixir, after the man who first developed it. It's meant to supplement the second potion._

He rolled the second vial between his fingers. Long, and rosy pink. To be taken on a weekly basis, on the same day, within the same two hours, as the week before. 

He remembered the scent of rose water and fennel.

_Unfortunately, it does not taste as good as it smells. Malattia Celi Beta. A mixture from Italy, containing all of the displacement charms and spellwork. A great deal of magic goes into it, and not simply in the potions field._

She'd smiled at him briefly, but then her expression had sobered. The third vial was small and rounded. Coriander. The smell of old leather. Valerian? And… Something that tingled Draco's nose, threatening to burn through the soft tissues of his throat should he dare to swallow it. He studied the mixture in the darkness. It was the color of tar. 

"If all goes well," he said slowly into the silence. "If all goes well."

 _This potion is a final option, should Harry's body resist the other two. It contains several herbs from China, two of which have not been widely accepted for use, except for this very potion. And there is the Quemadura Root from Chile. Very obscure, very rare, and very potent. It will deaden the body's natural defense mechanisms long enough for the other two potions to take effect. But understand, Draco, this one is a last resort. In the best of circumstances, I do not intend for Harry to use it. Any usage of this potion will require a subsequent visit from a Healer, and can cause lasting damage to the imbiber. The measurements must be precise._

Draco peered at the innocuous little bottle. It did so resemble the ink he'd used daily in school.

The precise dosage rested there in his palm, and it was all he would receive. Only if Harry were forced to use it… would they receive another.

Draco's hand squeezed involuntarily around the bottle. He blinked and jerked his arm up, pushing the little vessel into the cupboard. His fingers left the smooth glass of the vial, and the room seemed to tilt, and then right itself.

"What are we doing?" he whispered. His own voice shocked him. He clutched the door of the cupboard, staring at the soft glimmer of light across the two remaining vials in his other hand. The strongest of medicines, potions he hadn't even imagined the existence of three months ago, were in his home, waiting to be taken by the man he… 

Draco frowned. The man he was sleeping with. The man carrying his child. 

For a frightening instant, the idea of a child eluded him. Draco felt a shudder rattle through him. "It's not a sickness, you arse," he muttered. "There's a baby there."

He had felt it - _him_ , Draco reminded himself - move, not hours ago. The tiniest of ripples beneath Harry's skin, fragile and scarcely there. And these _were_ medicines, there was no other word for them. They would strengthen that delicate movement into a baby. Draco ran a hand over his face, trying to see, really see, but found himself utterly void. There was no connection, no binding tie between those weak flutters and the image of a child; just a vague foggy space he could barely see into. 

With an odd shiver, Draco realized his right hand was pressed across his own belly, quaking against the muscles and flesh there.

But for a stroke of… what? His fingers quavered, touching firm, flat expanses of skin and muscle. That night, it had been Harry who bottomed. If just one thing had been different, if instead, he had been the one to—

Draco gave a harsh gasp and scrabbled for the light switch. There was a breathless eternity of moonlight as he clawed at the wall, and then light flooded into his eyes, cruel and yellow. Draco grasped the sink with one hand, the two bottles a solid presence against his left palm, and stared at himself in the mirror. The muscles of his abdomen flexed with each breath, well-defined and familiar. Draco stared. Watched as gooseflesh crawled down his bare arms.

With a jerk, Draco turned from the mirror. He shoved the two vials into the cupboard with shaking fingers and shut the door with a sharp creak, then flicked the light off. The plunging darkness of the hallway unnerved him, and Draco reached for the wall, pressing his palm flat against the cool surface. He made his way slowly, blindly, toward the shadowy bedroom.

~tbc~


	4. Tasting Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's seventh month.

It took Harry longer to turn toward him tonight, easing one hand over his chest and pressing his thigh against Draco's leg. Draco left the lamp on and curled an arm around Harry's shoulder, drawing him closer. The yellow light shed soft shadows across the slope of Harry's chest and face. 

"You're feeling better then," he said dryly. Harry gave a soft snort muffled by the slow, laving kisses he was bestowing upon Draco's throat. Draco felt the murmur of his lover's answer just under his chin, but couldn't make out the words. If there were any. 

"You want to be on top?" he asked, curling the fingers of one hand through the tiny hairs on the back of Harry's neck. The other man didn't answer for so long that Draco frowned. "Harry—?"

"I don't care, Draco. Just—"

Draco hesitated, caught in the strange lilt to Harry's voice. Weary, but that was fairly normal lately. There was something else in it, something bordering on exasperation, but with a sharper edge. Draco drew a deep breath. Felt the firm roundness of Harry's belly against his own stomach. 

A single, soft kick. Draco pulled back and found Harry looking at him.

"He's active tonight." There was a tiny smile on his lover's lips, belying the dark smudges beneath his eyes. Draco stared, caught yet again in the changes that had been wrought on that familiar countenance. Lines around his eyes and mouth that had never been visible before, and a hollowness whose location Draco could not rightly place. Harry glanced down. His breath hitched for a moment and he squirmed slightly, the fingers of one hand brushing over his belly. "Do you want… You can feel him."

Draco caught himself before his eyes darted away. "I felt it." 

Something curious flitted through Harry's eyes, but Draco was already moving. He shifted, rolling Harry onto his back, then eased down next to him. Harry let out a soft sigh and reached up, but Draco took his face in his hands and kissed him slowly and thoroughly. Harry's hands stilled in the air beside his head. Draco saw his fingers curl slightly.

His body began to go limp as Draco kissed him, sinking down into the bed. Draco lifted himself until he was lying across Harry's chest and stroked his hand down his side, tracing along his hip and over the top of his thigh. Harry bent his knee into the caress and a slight sound broke from him, almost a whimper. Draco felt a wave of delicious dizziness spin through his head.

It had been too long since they'd had the time or willingness to do this. Draco lapped up the sounds Harry was making as if they were elixir, and he a doting addict. He was, he supposed. If only it weren't so hard to simply respond to that. So much else pushed into his sight lately. He'd come to loathe the smell of garlic for what it meant for Harry's days, and for his own nights. 

The potions were tucked away in the bathroom. Draco passed right over that cupboard as often as their weekly ritual would allow, but still he knew they were there, waiting to be uncorked and used again.

Waiting to push Harry's pain away for a few scant days and remind Draco of things he missed so much it hurt, and other things he longed to forget about. But then, that was impossible, when one could feel the evidence beneath one's fingers. Against one's carelessly draped arm during the night.

Harry's legs parted under the slightest brush of Draco's palm. A hand found his wrist and squeezed as Draco slid his fingertips over the hollows and rises of Harry's hips and thighs. He whispered a spell and took Harry's lower lip into his mouth. A moment later, a touch lower with his hand, and he felt the tight, soft heat he'd been looking for. It was easiest to pretend there; it was so familiar a sensation.

A breathless moan broke against his mouth. Harry quivered at the touch inside him, muscles clenching. Draco brushed his lips over Harry's forehead and came away tasting salt. He looked at Harry for a moment, wondering at the sweat so early on, working at opening him up, caressing gently, thoroughly. Harry's hand tightened over his own against the bed sheets, and Draco lowered his head to kiss him again.

"Draco…" Harry's voice was soft, hardly there. "God, I want…"

Draco rubbed Harry's chest with one hand, sought with the fingers of the other, and Harry arched beautifully, giving a tiny gasp. He stretched down, his other hand hovering over Harry's belly before reaching his erection.

Suddenly Harry stiffened. He caught his breath and turned his face away. One hand came up, pushing at Draco's arm. Draco took a moment to gather his breath, to still the immediate surge of irritation. It came so much faster nowadays. He disentangled himself from Harry, removing his fingers from his lover's body as gently as he could. Harry turned onto his side facing away from him, tucking himself into as much of a ball as his stomach would allow. Draco thought he saw a shiver whip through Harry's body, but it was gone before he could be sure. Harry's face looked very flushed.

"You alright?" Draco asked. He brushed a hand over the skin of Harry's arm. So warm. Harry nodded. One of his hands came up to press between his eyes. 

"Not up for it tonight." It wasn't a question, just a statement Draco hadn't really put into words before. It had always been silent, their moments of giving up. Harry would turn his head from a kiss, squirm a bit against Draco's body. Or lift himself off and away. And then let Draco hold him until they slept.

"How come you never touch me?" Harry asked quietly. 

For a long moment, Draco was puzzled. He rose on one elbow and looked down at Harry's profile. His lover refused to look at him. "Harry, what are you talking about? I touch you every night."

The slightest of shivers shook Harry's frame. Again. "Not… there," he whispered.

Draco blinked, confused. _What…_

Harry's hand drifted down from his arm, coming to rest over his own belly, and suddenly Draco felt sick.

"Why do you never…" Harry pursed his lips, falling silent. But his hand continued to drift, rubbing small circles over his stomach. His palm fit so perfectly around that curve. Draco looked away.

There was a moment of tense and utter silence. And then Harry sighed. "It doesn't matter," he muttered.

Draco stared at Harry's back, the unsteady rise and fall of too-quick breaths. The lamp shot a wide arc of light that fell into shadow just across the first rounded curve of Harry's belly. Draco could see the tips of his lover's fingers peeking above the line of darkness.

His throat tightened, but even if he could have spoken, he would not have done it.

How could he possibly explain the nauseated feeling to Harry? The memory of his lover's pained groans was only too clear in Draco's ears, echoing as if they were already embedded in the walls like some restless spirit. It was just easier not to think about the ever-growing bulge in Harry's body, the strange, ominous flutters that woke them both in the middle of the night. 

Draco lay propped on his elbow for some minutes, watching the rhythm of Harry's breathing as he drifted into slumber. His body was full of twitches and tingles, and for a long time Draco considered getting up. Walking it off. He'd done it before; around and around the house, until the only sound was the soft buzz of the streetlight outside his living room window and the only thing that remained in his mind was the first few months before Harry had walked away from him. From them. Harry's dark hair and wiry body, his incessant grin lit by club strobes and starlight. Draco often returned to bed in the dark and curled against Harry's back, wrapping his arms around his chest and feeling nothing but _Harry_ there in that body. His lover. In his bed, and everything was as it should be.

It was impossible not to touch Harry. But Draco couldn't bring himself to seek out that movement under Harry's skin. He'd tried, many a night, in answer to the soft light in his lover's eyes and to the faint, threadbare memory of that first touch three months ago. When he'd reached and felt the smallest of quivers, docile beneath Harry's skin. When Harry's hand had closed over his, and they'd felt the squirmy ripple together.

What was wrong with him? It was still the same ripple, stronger, more vibrant, but the same. It was… Draco swallowed. It was Harry who was different. Harry, whose weeks began with a desperate relief that hollowed his face, and ended with the glassy stare of pain too constant for movement or even thought. Harry, whose hands pushed Draco away just as often as they sought him out, whose sallow skin told the truth about the effort he now had to make in the name of intimacy. Harry, who fought with him over what and when to eat. Or to eat at all. 

Like an illness eating at Harry's body, and yet containing its own ability to sustain him. A futile, maddening circle.

He couldn't think about the ripple, because when he did, he thought of futility. It was a damnable thought, but Draco wanted his lover back. He was desperate for it, desperate enough to count days. Desperate enough to forget himself in the exhaustion of the night's small hours and think bitterly for a moment before forcing it down deep.

But they'd come too far, and now the only safe way out was through.

* * *

Harry woke him with moaning, a gentle, soothing sound that scraped against Draco's consciousness. He roused himself, trying to blink past the iron weights his eyelids had become. The bed was too hot, and he struggled vaguely to untangle his feet from the blankets. Something moved beside him - Harry - and Draco rose onto his elbows.

Harry thrashed, legs flailing out and then curling back up beneath the duvet. His back was turned toward Draco, and for a moment, Draco did not connect the heat radiating into his arm as Harry's heat. 

Much too hot.

"Harry?" Draco swung the duvet away hurriedly and rose to his knees on the mattress. He leaned over his lover, but Harry had burrowed so deeply into the sheets and blankets that Draco could barely see him. He reached out a hand, and two things happened at once.

Harry gave a violent shiver, head to toe.

And Draco's hand came away from his lover's shoulder, burning.

"Gods—" Draco fought to turn Harry over, but the other man did not even seem to know he was there. When Draco finally succeeded in rolling Harry onto his back, his lover came with a soft exhalation and a wave of heat. Green eyes opened sluggishly and blinked up at Draco in the darkness.

"What?" Harry said, quite calmly. His voice slurred, drew the word out into a distorted echo. Draco leaned closer.

"Harry?"

"Shouldn't use that spell." More slurring. Slow blink. A shake of the head, almost an afterthought. Draco opened his mouth but Harry's voice came again. "Someone might notice. Might see you."

Harry's eyes slid shut and his head drifted to one side on the pillow.

Draco clapped a hand over Harry's forehead, then his cheek. The fever beat into his palm, raging through the soft flesh of Harry's face. A single word slid like molasses into Draco's brain. 

_Infection._

He jerked himself free of the covers and stumbled out of the room into the bathroom. He'd forgotten his wand, and it was so dark, but his fingers found their way into the second cabinet and the small vials there. Cylindrical… the weekly one? Triangular— Draco felt past it and scrabbled for the small rounded glass in the corner. He made his way back to the bedroom on surer feet and dropped to the side of the bed. Harry hung limply, one arm falling off the bed, palm down. His lips moved and garbled nonsense came from them, wispy as down.

Draco propped him up with one arm and uncorked the vial. He dipped his fingertip in and wetted Harry's lips and tongue with the black liquid there. Harry's eyes flew open and he cried out, utterly shocking sounds in the stillness. Draco nearly dropped the vial, but Harry's gaze fixed on him and his eyes went wide in recognition. The cry dropped into a weak groan.

Draco crawled into bed, pulling Harry into his lap. Harry clenched up into a ball, one hand pawing at his stomach, the other fisting Draco's pants. "Oh god, Dra-Draco, make it stop, _please_ —"

He shushed Harry, soft _shhhh_ s over the pained whimpers. Slowly, he managed to tip the bottle past Harry's lips, once, twice, enough for all the liquid inside to drain out, leaving a thin gray sheen over the inside of the glass. Harry's body began to sweat profusely. His fingernails dug into Draco's arm and Draco hissed at the pain. He grabbed Harry's hand, squeezing until it released him. "Harry, stop—"

"I don't want it anymore Draco please please get it out of me I don't want it—"

The agony burst into the air of the room and Harry cried out again, trying to curl away from it, into it, around it. Harry's words had frozen Draco's breath in his chest, hot and acidic, and he cursed to get it out.

"Fuck, Harry, shut up, listen to yourself," he whispered. Harry's face was pinched, contorting horribly, and Draco didn't think he'd heard.

"Draco…" A shivery whimper. "God, please…"

 _"No,"_ Draco hissed, so vehemently he bit his lip, tasted blood sliding into his mouth. He shook Harry's shoulders, snatched at his chin and forced cloudy green eyes to his. "Don't you fucking ask me to do that," all in a rush, like poison, "don't you ask me, I am _not_ going to lose you to this!"

Harry quieted, harsh breathing wracking his body, shuddering, but staring up at Draco. His face spasmed once, a swift wrench of pain, and Draco let go of him with a start. His fingerprints were livid white on Harry's shoulder, his chin. Harry's eyes squeezed shut and a tear slid down one cheek.

"Draco," he whimpered.

Draco gathered Harry to him, fighting for control over his eyes, his heart, his lungs, and most of all, his fear. Wand, where, where was his wand? Surely he could summon… He had no idea. Loss, utter and complete, stared him down and he bent his head to Harry's forehead and bit his lip to keep from making a sound. 

"It hurts," Harry whispered. "Draco, it—"

Draco could only nod and hold Harry closer, and thank every god known to wizards that the potion had broken the fever and left only the pain behind. He prayed the Healer would arrive soon.

* * *

She handed him a new bottle, round as a ball and black as tar. Draco stared at it where it dangled from her fingertips for much too long before reaching up to take it. 

The Healer exhaled the deep sigh of restfulness. "He's sleeping. His body is reacting well."

Draco couldn't stop looking at the little bottle. It looked so harmless there in his palm. Such a trick. "And his fever?"

"Nearly dissipated." She smiled at him, but Draco felt nothing of the reassurance there. He didn't feel that much of anything. "I've dosed him with more of the Malattia, so your schedule will have to be altered to accommodate that. How long has it been since he's had the monthly?"

Draco could see the dates clear in his mind, burned there like brands. "Twenty-three days."

She considered in silence, tapping one finger on her other palm. "In the morning, he can be woken for another dose of the Titus Cirrus, and then you can mark your month from there, though I doubt if he'll need it again. It's the seventh month; he's very close. The baby is doing fine, Draco."

He could only look at her dully. A shiver of consternation flitted over the Healer's face, marring for an instant, then disappearing. 

Draco said nothing. The Healer studied him for a long moment, and then reached out and squeezed his shoulder. Her touch was faintly cool. Faintly calming.

"I'll use your couch tonight, if you don't mind."

Draco suspected she was not staying because she felt it necessary, but because she could read a lot more in his face than even he knew was there. He nodded, summoning his energies to find extra linens. Pillow cases. In the end, he didn't think he'd been of much help. He watched as she moved about the living room, turning lamps down low and charming a modest fire in the hearth. She located his Floo powder and set it on the coffee table beside her wand, then bid him goodnight. Her expression was unreadable when he finally left her behind in the living room.

Draco made it halfway down the hall and was safely in the darkness before he slid to the floor, unable to walk for the trembling in his legs.

~tbc~


	5. The Cause of All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room is white, and Draco can do nothing but wait.

It had been over an hour. Draco rubbed his face with both hands, slowly. Up and down.

The light was too bright, the stark white of the overly sanitary. Draco could not feel the chair under him, or hear the words being spoken around him, but he was aware that someone was talking. That the Floo behind the main desk was active and there was someone's head hanging in the fire just on the other side of the Disillusionment Charm. Footsteps up and down the halls, but the door, _that_ door, had not yet opened.

It was all Draco could see. Just blank, dark wood with an ornate bronze handle, not opening.

He couldn't sit. Draco got up. And then found he couldn't stand either. _It's taking too long, much too long, any minute they'll come through that door and tell me that—_

Draco pressed his fingers over his eyes and willed his mind blank. A short respite; it never lasted long, and he'd been employing the tactic erratically for the past hour. His mind no longer wanted to blank. Like any overused muscle, it was too weary to block the fear out any longer.

But before… The white lights of the room stung his eyes when he forced them open, too wide for such a sudden action. Before, it had almost been worse to have that tangible reminder of Harry's pain.

Constant for the last week. The potions Harry had imbibed had done nothing, but the eighth month had barely begun and something inside Draco had known it was too early. But it couldn't hold a candle to the other half of him, the half that had stopped flinching at the sounds of Harry's whimpers simply because it had grown used to them at all hours of the day and night. Gods… If Harry had had the energy to fight about it, Draco would never have gotten him to eat anything. His lover's face had sunken in pain, so much deeper than the hollowness of a mere week earlier. 

When the day finally came, there was no one left in their home to protest the relief of the situation. Draco could barely stand seeing Harry like this, and Harry… Harry was practically delirious. No one left to argue about "too early" or "too risky."

The woman at the front desk tapped her fingernails over the top as she read through a stack of parchment. The Floo behind the desk had gone silent. Draco stared at the woman dully, hating the sound of her fingernails. Clack clack clackity clack. Annoyance rose in him and then ebbed just as suddenly, leaving Draco's mind vulnerable and empty.

Ready to be filled.

They were cleansing him. Cleansing Harry. Of all the potions, everything. Or maybe they already had. The Healer had spoken of heavier magics, when the hour was young and Draco had been less winded. Still running on the adrenaline of Harry's transport to St. Mungo's. Still willing to listen. 

_Harry's body is inundated, Draco. The older spells will have to be washed out, so to speak, before he will respond properly to the birthing magic. They do not react well together, and with Harry's pregnancy being what it is, we will need to employ several extremely potent spells._

Harry's pregnancy being what it is. Draco got up again, needing to walk, needing to move. He recalled the vague stirrings of her discussions with him, but could remember nothing more than scattered phrases, the odd explanation. He hadn't the ability to sort it out now, in this blinding waiting room, with those clacking nails and that door that wouldn't open. 

Harry's pregnancy was different. Accidental. Draco wanted to laugh hysterically. As accidental as something like this could be. The second type of pregnancy available to men. And so it had to be treated slightly more aggressively, attended to more carefully. Different spells, different methods. Different outcomes. Draco slumped down into his chair again. He couldn't think, couldn't process more than the emotions he had felt while having that conversation, and they were foggy and incomplete and roiling. 

It had been too damn long, everything was telling him so, all his instincts and feelings—Draco looked at the door again, suddenly sick to his stomach. Oh gods. Did he even want them to come through that door with the type of message they might bear? Perhaps it would be better never to hear it. At least then he could pretend the door had never opened.

He lost track of time, drifting in the sterile white of the room and the muddy darkness of his thoughts. If only to end Harry's moans. If only to conclude this entire strange parody of life that they had been playing out for the past four months. The final hour had come upon him at last and for all his mental preparation, he was _not ready_ for the moment they might come through the door and tell him that they'd lost Harry.

Draco didn't quite understand the click for what it was until several seconds had gone by. Something nagged at him, and he looked up to see a young Healer standing just inside the door, conversing quietly with the woman at the front desk.

Draco was on his feet before he knew what he was doing.

"Tell me what's going on," he grated out. Both women turned to look at him, the one behind the desk with surprise and the other with the hooded gaze of appraisal. She smiled at him a little too simply. Draco stalked across the room.

"What's going on in there?" he said, too fast. He didn't even recognize his own voice; Draco Malfoy never spoke this frenziedly. The Healer - young enough to be in school - regarded him with that same irritating smile.

"Have a seat, sir. Everything's well in hand."

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. His pulse was throbbing dangerously in his temple. "You have four seconds to begin explaining to me what is happening in there," he said, gesturing toward the door.

"Sir," the girl said in a pained voice, "there's no need to get upset, I assure you. Everything is perfectly—"

The tilt of her eyebrow was so familiar that Draco's fury ignited. He slashed a hand in front of her face, forcing her silence. 

"Don't you _dare_ patronize me," he hissed, deadly quiet. "I'm not some simpering imbecile you can spin your sickening platitudes for, I'm Draco Lucius Malfoy. Now answer my question or I'll have your insignificant little category of employment terminated!"

The girl's brown eyes widened. She flinched, gaze darting over his face. Draco's heart thudded soundly as she glanced behind her toward the room she'd just left.

Gods… as if she didn't even know who she'd been performing surgery on in there. Draco pushed past her toward the front desk, reeling in the fire of his own tangled emotions.

"Is he alright?"

The woman behind the desk met his eyes and swallowed. "Sir, try to be—"

"No, don't talk to me about being patient. It's taken too long and you bloody well know it!"

The woman looked helplessly at him, and Draco heard another belated click. Relief crossed her face, but Draco was already turning around, facing the door as it opened once more.

Harry's Healer stood there, face drawn in weariness, one hand still on the door handle. Another younger Healer stood behind her, a tangled bundle of rags tucked into the crook of one arm. All Draco could see of the inner room was the low glow of light off the walls. A darkened window. The head Healer smiled at him.

"Mr Malfoy. Draco. How have you been holding up?" She nudged the younger Healer to the side and shut the door behind them, eyes never leaving his face. He could see the concern in them, and a passivity that infuriated him. Draco drew himself up.

"What's happened?" he growled. Flung a hand out toward the once again closed door. "Where's Harry?"

The Healer smiled at him, but it only made his anger spike again. "He's in recovery. It took a little longer than I expected, but—"

"Why?" Draco cut her off. "What's wrong? Is he alright?"

Her graying brows lifted. "Draco, please calm down. Nothing is wrong."

Draco hissed before he could stop himself. "Don't you tell me to calm down." He glared at the two other women already in the room in turn. "They've been telling me that for the last hour! I don't need to calm down, I need to know how he is!"

The Healer walked forward steadily, and the younger Healer behind her followed. "Draco, Harry is alright. Nothing has happened to him, I promise. Please sit down, and we'll talk. Please."

Draco searched her face. His throat hurt, far too cluttered by emotions he could no longer make sense of. "I do not need to sit down," he ground out hoarsely. He could feel the magical residue seeping off of the Healer, drifting in the utter exhaustion of her frame. "Is he alright? Is he— Were there complications?"

The Healer regarded him carefully, then shook her head. "Harry's fine. He's begun the healing process already, and that will take some time, but he will be fine. No complications to speak of. Draco, he is fine."

She motioned behind her and the younger Healer approached, smiling at him in a very peculiar, far too open manner. Draco spared her an irritated glance and turned back to the older woman. "Is he going to recover? You spoke of aftereffects, that he would be ill for some time—"

She shook her head. "Draco, I don't want you to think about that right now. We'll deal with that soon enough. Right now, I think—"

She nodded toward her younger counterpart. "You might want to concentrate on—"

And then the girl was settling something in his arms, her strange bundle of rags, gently. She was murmuring to him in low tones, about being careful, _perhaps the chair, Mr Malfoy—_

Draco looked down and found he was not holding rags. Warmth beat into his body, and a pair of wide sky-blue eyes blinked up at him from a scrunched face. Draco's heart stopped entirely in his chest.

Tiny fingers curled into a fist just above the soft swaddle of blankets.

Draco wasn't sure why his knees didn't give out. They should have; the magnitude of what he was holding was so enormous. Everything went mute, dull and cottony in his ears, and he could only stare at the consciousness staring back at him, the tiny body cradled - oh Merlin, _cradled_ \- in his arms.

He hadn't— hadn't even— Draco tried to swallow. Baby. Of course… of course there was a baby. But it hadn't occurred to him, he'd only been able to see dark, sweat-drenched hair and hollowed green eyes, a body twisting in an agony he could not feel. He'd completely forgotten the entire reason for it. The ultimate outcome.

Blue eyes. Why, why in the world did it have blue eyes? No Malfoy had ever had eyes that blue. They peered up at him, large and luminous, from a face that was entirely too wrinkled, a little like a prune. Tiny, longish fingers crossed over each other, and Draco felt a strange shift of movement within the bundle of blankets, not entirely unlike the ripple he'd detected time and time again beneath Harry's skin.

So small. So incredibly small. Smaller than any baby he'd ever seen. Something deep inside Draco's brain offered up the word _boy_ and he finally did swallow, suddenly unable to catch his breath. The baby had full lips, oddly shaped, as if they weren't quite sure how to be lips yet, pursed together like a little envelope. Rounded cheeks and a tiny, tiny chin.

He felt the touch of something against his shoulder and found the Healer's wiry hand resting there. But he couldn't look up. Couldn't look away. It was an enigma. Weren't babies supposed to be adorable? Endearing immediately, and not this squinched, slightly pruny bundle of blinking and strangely shaped fists and wayward hair the color of—

Draco's breath caught yet again. Black hair. Lots of it, drifting in still-damp wisps around the tiny temples and protruding ears. 

Harry's hair. 

Draco couldn't stop himself; he reached up with one hand and brushed the small curl lying against the baby's forehead. The baby gave a tired wiggle, some limb pushing against Draco's chest from within the folds of blanket. Draco's mouth opened but there were no words.

This… had been the cause of all Harry's pain. This little, _little_ creature that stared up at him now as if it knew him, tiny limbs and large head, and red-blotchy skin.

Draco had expected to feel anger. But that was not the name for what was flipping around inside him. He couldn't give it a name yet, but he knew it wasn't hate.

"—aco."

He lifted his eyes as if pulled and found the four women watching him quietly. The girl behind the desk's face had gone slack and she was staring at him as if she'd never, ever seen him before. The older Healer was standing very close; somehow she'd moved behind him and was studying his face from over his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he whispered. Yes. No. He didn't know what he was.

Father. A father to this… child. This boy. Here in his arms.

"Gods…" It left him on a breath. The Healer nodded, a small smile curving her thin lips.

"Yes, indeed," she said softly. She rubbed his arm, the most she'd ever touched him. And nodded again. "Yes, indeed."

~tbc~


	6. Monumental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first week home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Djin7 in thanks for her contribution to the help_haiti lj community.

His flat didn't look different. At night it still had the shadows over the south wall of the study and the moon's glow on the east. Draco had seen bodies carved in sweat-silver by that moon, one body in particular, legs and arms tangling with his and everything whitewashed by the light until he couldn't tell whose limbs were whose. Pale and tanned skin blended in that study, across sofa and chair and plush rug. He could remember dark hair woven between his fingertips.

In the sitting room, the shadows stretched long and full, the way they had before. The kitchen was a black void, and in the bedroom, there was still sleep. There were still dreams.

His flat didn't look different. But now it housed three souls.

The baby was asleep, tucked in the shape of a ball. A bundle. Draco's right arm felt hot and tired from being bent, and it all made so little sense: The baby was very small. His weight was the same as that of a folded jumper.

When he slept, he curled so tightly. A solitary form, as if he wanted to remain apart from the world he had been thrust into.

Draco studied the scrunched nose, long eyelashes, indefinite chin, and couldn't see himself anywhere. There was just a tiny person there, somehow left in his care, out of all the caregivers in the world. He wasn't sure why this one felt like _his_ baby. His son.

The baby was quiet; a sleeper. A dreamer, Draco could see it in the movement behind his eyelids.

They had no name for him yet, and for the life of him, Draco couldn't think of one.

It felt monumental, holding the power over what this new person would be called for the rest of his life. Draco gave up on familial names as soon as the idea occurred. They were not names for children. Even his own name must have been a heavy shroud draped over too young a body.

Harry's sleep was always deep. His limbs rested like stones across the duvet, fingers curled and still. Sometimes Draco would find him just waking, or just drifting off. Draco crept into the room one morning, floating soup ahead of him, and found Harry blinking in the light.

"Hey." Harry's voice was scratchy.

"How are you feeling?" The baby was a limp mass of heat against Draco's chest.

Harry's hollow eyes strayed. He studied their son and for a second, Draco thought he saw puzzlement in Harry's face. "Swollen," Harry croaked. He settled back as if the bed were pulling him. Already his eyelids were dipping. "Feels like my stomach's been kicked in. Hot. Numb."

Draco came to the side of the bed and felt for fever, but Harry's forehead was dry and normal under his fingers. Harry's eyes shut and his hands uncurled a little against the sheet. Draco passed a fingertip just above the skin of Harry's temple. Harry's breathing evened.

Draco checked the glass of water beside the bed and found it emptier than before. He refilled it and put the soup under a heating charm on the bedside table. He pulled the duvet higher and pressed the back of his hand to Harry's forehead again. The baby whimpered and kicked. His blue eyes opened, hazy with sleep.

Draco left the room before any noise disturbed Harry's rest.

* * *

The baby was very small. About the length of Draco's forearm. He slept often, and deeply: on the couch, against Draco's chest, with Harry, even wrapped in blankets on the floor. When both Harry and the baby were asleep, the house became so quiet that Draco had to open the door and step outside, incapable of standing in that void for one instant longer. On the front stoop, he leaned against the wall of the house and waited for his racing heart to calm. It was almost like a panic attack, but that was just… ridiculous. 

Draco didn't like to feel alone, that was all.

He made himself meals each night, and ate them standing at the worktop in the kitchen. Whenever the last vegetable was sliced or the pasta drained, like clockwork, the sensation of missing something crept inward. He could not articulate it, nor could he explain the speed of his steps to the bedroom. Back in the kitchen, one arm full of drowsy child and a fork in his other hand, another meal was consumed in silence.

Harry slept. And slept. Sometimes the moonlight streamed over the bed and Draco was certain he was staring at a corpse. It didn't matter that Harry breathed, that Draco could see the thump of his pulse at his throat. There was a stillness that couldn't be overpowered.

Draco called the healer twice and was assured, twice, that Harry was alright. 

The baby was so… so tiny. Draco could fit both little fists into one of his own, and he stood there one morning, loosely holding those two fists while the baby breathed nasally, mouth open. His breath was sweet. It tickled across Draco's cheek when he bent his head to listen. The baby's hair was soft and thin, as black as Draco had ever seen. He'd been told by the healers that it may or may not last, that the blue of the baby's eyes could fade into another colour. That the baby's hair could fall out, that he might develop fuzz like a peach. His head felt soft and fragile, too big for the little body it was a part of.

The second night home, the baby began to choke. He spit bloody mucous all over Draco's arm. Draco blasted the fire to life and the Floo powder into it, and was through to St. Mungo's in seconds as the baby twitched and jerked against his chest. The healer looked at him like she was not surprised to see him. 

"Hold him upright," she said, far too calmly.

Draco did, and the coughing quieted a little. The sputum kept coming. Draco stood in nearly ten minutes of hell while the healer wove calming charms over the baby's body. She rubbed one hand up and down that small back, and the other up and down Draco's, and all Draco could think about was Harry, asleep at home while his baby died on the both of them in the middle of a St. Mungo's corridor.

"When a woman gives birth naturally," the healer murmured, "the baby travels through the birth canal, and all this mucous is pushed out of its lungs. Sometimes when the baby is delivered through other means, the lungs do not clear until later. Days, even weeks."

"You never said anything," Draco whispered. The baby cleared his throat, one hand gripping Draco's shirt.

"It's not a guaranteed circumstance, Mr Malfoy. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it doesn't. Actually, I've only seen this once before after a male pregnancy. The spells we perform after the birth tend to clear the problem up. This little one's just got a bit more in his lungs than usual." She stroked the baby's hair and they both watched as he got his lungs under his own control again and proceeded to fall asleep.

* * *

"But I haven't seen you in ages!"

Draco's knees were beginning to hurt. So was his head. "Right now's not a good time, Panse." 

Pansy Parkinson opened her mouth, then frowned at him through the flames. "Draco, you don't look well."

He winced. "Been a trying year."

"Salazar, it's been a year? It has! That's it. I'm coming through to make you some soup, and you are going to tell me everything." 

Draco thrust his wand toward the fire and Pansy's eyes widened. Draco shook his head. "No. I'm serious, Pansy. It's not the appropriate time."

"The appropriate time?" She was irritated, he could hear it. "Draco, I did half my medical postgrad in St. Mungo's, I'm more than capable of taking care of you! Why are you whispering?"

"Look, Pansy," he sighed, "I will tell you everything. I swear it. But I really… really need for you to not come over here until I'm ready. It's important. Really important."

She peered at him. He could see her thoughts ticking over. "Alright… I guess. But—" She jabbed a finger at him. "I'm holding you to it. You'd better Floo me within the week."

"Two weeks."

"Within two weeks," she snapped and doused the Floo. The last thing he heard was her huff mixing with the hiss of extinguished coals.

Draco stared at the flames still roaring in his hearth for another moment, then snapped them out with a slash of his wand. He peeled himself off his knees, groaning. His feet tingled as the blood rushed back in. 

Two weeks. He rubbed his face.

There was no way to dump her into this cold. A letter then, if he could ever find the right words. And yet, it felt much too personal to delegate to a mere letter. He didn't think he'd ever be able to explain how he'd ended up with… who he'd ended up with. 

The last time Draco had seen Pansy, she'd joked about their future together and all their elitist potential offspring, one hand perched cosily on his forearm, the other curled around a gin and tonic.

Draco had never wanted alcohol as much as he did right then.

He got himself three fingers of Scotch from the pantry and tossed it down so fast he thought his throat was going to explode into flame. When he could breathe again, he leaned against the worktop, trying to get himself to stop shaking. He was so fucking tired. 

Draco filled a bowl with broth for Harry, grabbed a bottle of formula from the refrigerator, and carried them to the bedroom. Both Harry and the baby were asleep, Harry tucked into a loose curve around their… Draco blinked. Their son. 

"Can't get used to that," Draco muttered. He set a cooling charm over the broth and the bottle, then collapsed into the armchair beside the bed and didn't remember anything more after that.

* * *

He opened his eyes and found Harry awake. Harry had not moved. He rested on his side, looking for all the world like a sagging doll, watching the baby. From where he sat, Draco could see they were not touching, that the baby was still swaddled and fast asleep.

After a few moments, Harry's eyes flickered up and caught Draco's. His lips curved slightly. "Hey."

Draco wet his lips. "Hey."

"How long…?" Harry's gesture consisted of knotted brows, a faint crease at the bridge of his nose.

"Five days." Draco pushed himself out of the chair and wandered over to the bed. He lowered himself gingerly to sit on the edge. "Since St. Mungo's."

Harry's eyes were pleading. Draco sighed. "He's…" He nearly touched the baby, but pulled back an inch from his cheek. "He's eight days old."

Harry's face contorted and he shut his eyes. Draco could tell he was holding his breath. Harry exhaled in a whoosh. "Eight days."

Draco wanted to remind Harry of the hell he'd been through, the complete ravaging of his health, the reason he'd slept for four days straight. A strange clenching seized his chest, half frustration, half adoration, and he wasn't used to them together, not like this. He should… be mad. At the baby, for doing what he had done to Harry. But he couldn't be. Wherever the anger had gone, it was no longer in him.

He felt empty.

"Is he…"

Draco jerked at Harry's voice and the baby twitched once, then subsided. Draco stretched himself onto the bed as carefully as possible. The sleeping, the return trip to the healer, the odd silence of squinty blue eyes… Harry deserved to know it.

"He's just fine," Draco murmured.

Harry's body lost some sliver of rigidity that Draco had failed to notice. One hand crept out, and Harry stroked gently across the baby's forehead. "He's so little."

"He was early," Draco said. Right on time, for a male pregnancy. But in the ultimate scheme of things, early.

He'd tell Harry the rest of what had happened when he was certain Harry could keep down slightly denser food, when he did not need to help Harry just to cross the hall to the toilet. It tumbled down on him again that he had yet to do that. Harry had yet to need the loo. If there was any sign of how far gone Harry's health was…

"Any ideas for his name?" Harry asked. His finger slipped down the baby's cheek to his tiny chin. 

"None."

Harry did not answer. He just tilted his head, then settled deeper into the pillows with a sigh. Draco sighed too and tried his best to relax, watching Harry's heavy eyelids as Harry watched the baby.

~tbc~


	7. Epilogue: The Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later.

Sometimes Harry watches from the bedroom window as Draco takes Aidan to the park across the road, and wonders how he managed to hold onto his lover for three years.

~

He should be sleeping; he was when Draco crept out the door with their son on his hip, or at least pretending. It's easier than coming down the stairs to tuck Aidan's hat over his ears and witnessing the tight cinch of Draco's features.

 _You need to be in bed._ A raised eyebrow, until Harry nods, flushing, and goes back down the hall. Draco means well. Harry hasn't been sleeping right since Aidan's birth, and though he can feel normal returning— slow and sure as the steps Aidan takes between chair and coffee table and doorway— he is far from rested, far from the health he possessed before.

But Draco simply catches his attention out among the leafless trees, walking through grass that is somehow still a vibrant green. He manages to keep his cream suede jacket clean as he weaves in between scurrying toddlers and older children with moist, sandy hands. He's wearing sunglasses, and he looks like a Muggle model as he stoops and deposits Aidan in one of the sandboxes. Aidan picks up a handful of sand and watches intently as it sifts between his little fingers. Draco takes a moment to stretch, long and lithe, jacket rising over his untucked shirt, and the dark flash of his shades echoes under fair fringe, against cheeks pinked by the air's chill.

Aidan is obviously Draco's child, though he still has Harry's misbegotten thatch atop his head. Their son bears a slender face, angled and elegant even under the baby fat. But for the moment— Harry watches one long-fingered hand sweep through corn silk hair— Draco does not look like anyone's father. He is young, he is dressed too well for a park outing, except Draco makes his grace and clothing look natural. To the outside eye, he must be awaiting a slinky redhead or delicately boned brunet to take him to the cultured party he looks like he belongs at, to give him the breathless nights he deserves.

Harry knows this baby is not something Draco wanted. He remembers the pinched look his lover wore during the pregnancy, the way he stopped touching Harry's belly during the seventh month and did not start again until Harry was ready to be intimate once more

(after the shirts at night, the scarring and the shame—) 

and in this moment, when Draco stretches against the azure sky and sunlight, Harry feels most hopeless. 

Then Aidan looks up, raises one hand to Draco. There is a moment when Draco simply holds their son's fingers, and Harry has to make himself breathe again.

The Muggle mothers like Draco, and some of the young fathers, too. Harry sees them from between the drapes, watches as they creep timidly toward him and begin to converse. As if Draco possesses his own gravity well. The women are pretty: round faces, plump hips, some tall and angular, others short and wide… all beautiful because their smiles speak of the children tugging at their shirt hems, the babies drifting off to sleep in their arms. But the men make Harry stare and swallow, and wonder what keeps Draco in his bed night after night.

Harry isn't in the mood, often enough. The strangeness of his sleep unsettles him, turns him away from Draco's warm hands and gentle kisses, and though his lover tries to hide it, Harry hears the sigh just before Draco slides down against his back and spoons him into sleep.

In the park, Aidan begins to whimper— Harry can just tell, he always _has_ been able to— and Draco lifts him onto one hip. A little towheaded girl plays in the sand at her father's feet; her father is busy smiling at Draco. The man sways, hands in his pockets like a shy schoolboy. He speaks, and Draco smiles back indulgently.

Harry recognizes the man. His daughter is Aidan's age, but they are both quiet children and keep to themselves, to their patches of sand. Her father is polite. Harry spoke with him one day when he took Aidan in Draco's stead, and can remember his bright grin vividly. The man recognizes Aidan as well. Perhaps he's wondering why he's with Draco today. Harry can almost hear the question as the man gestures at their son, flirtatious curiosity in every motion. Draco's lips move, a short phrase, and the man's expression falls into a wistfulness that Harry would rather not look at because it reminds him of himself.

Draco hitches Aidan up, turns his body, and Harry ponders the slight but clear distance Draco has put between the man and their son. He bends, touches his forehead to Aidan's. There is a private, tender smile on his face before he turns back. Aidan tries to stick his chubby thumb into his mouth, and Draco takes his hand without looking away from the other father, guiding it down and giving Aidan his own fingers to play with instead.

He speaks. The man laughs. The breeze ruffles at Draco's hair.

~

Harry spends his nights in Draco's arms, awake long after his lover has dropped off, contemplating the change of light over Draco's bare chest as he breathes.

Aidan is as quiet a sleeper as he is when awake, and Harry has had the opportunity to sleep all the way through the night since the day their son was born, if only his body would allow it. He weaves his fingers through Draco's in the darkness and lets himself imagine things he should, and things he shouldn't.

Some nights he wakes to Draco's body sliding like silk against his, rising, pressing chest to chest, hands drifting along his sides and rubbing over his nipples. Draco moves so that they are touching everywhere, always, thighs on thighs, ankles twining, hips locking, the caress of Draco's cheek against his throat up and down like a cat.

Fingers sweep and linger over the scar down Harry's belly, a hand at his hip and then between his thighs, touching him as if he is fragile, treasured. Draco's chest swells against his; an arm tucks itself between Harry's shoulder and the sheets, affording them more skin against skin, heat on heat. Draco's shudder becomes Harry's as he thrusts lightly, maddeningly against him, whole body, whole— body—

Harry feels fingertips over his belly again, and his toes clench. His skin ripples into gooseflesh and he wonders, not for the first time, if this will be the night when Draco touches the raised, white skin of his scar and is finally, finally repulsed.

Draco enters him slowly, gently, and completely. Harry forgets to think. Instead he just _is_ : weary and scarred, needing suddenly, with a son slumbering in the next room, the father of his child deep within him, moving, moving. Weary, scarred, three years older than he was. Weary and scarred, and healing. He arches his neck, crying out silently. Draco kisses the slope just under his chin, lips trembling on the verge of something. Finds Harry's mouth with the next thrust. Makes love to him there.

Inside. Inside.

Harry wraps himself around Draco, wraps himself in Draco, and comes with barely a whimper because like this, the physical act of coming is hardly the point. He feels like he has _come_ when Draco does. A second time when Draco remains inside him, tremulous and open-mouthed against his chest. A third, when Draco's mouth finds his and whispers things only his soul can hear.

Tonight, Draco slides over him, aligning chests and thighs, but resting there, as if only to feel the way they fit together, the way they lock like a key sliding a bolt home. Draco is half asleep, his body a mass of intense heat. He touches Harry's scar, drifts up, and then darts back again for a final, simple caress. He sprawls across Harry's chest and one of his arms slides over Harry's ribs, then up under his shoulder like an anchor.

There will be no sex tonight, Harry can feel it. He jokes then, in the darkness with Draco too far gone to hear. He rarely speaks when Draco moves at night, but tonight…

"Getting tired of me, are you?" The words slip like water into the still room.

Draco's voice comes on a breath, half-tangled in dreams. "Don' be a prat," he mumbles. "You're everything I could… ever want…"

Harry swallows against what tries to come out. He blinks, blinks again. Draco nuzzles his head into the curve of Harry's throat, and Harry has never felt so safe.

~fin~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 **EXTENSIVE AUTHOR'S NOTES:** First off, I apologize for this.

Not for the story itself, but for the abruptness of its ending, and the fact that it will not be finished in the way I had initially wanted. Being a reader of WIPs, I understand completely how aggravating it is to leave a story forever unfinished, but even more so, to follow a story for ages only to feel a huge letdown in the end as the author loses interest. I certainly didn't want to leave it unfinished. I'm also not entirely sure if this is all that much better. A lot of things in this case… the foremost being that the muse for this series has left me pretty much completely. I had plans for this Harry and Draco which are only half-realized: there was discussion of a jealous Pansy who comes to terms with her loss and with Harry when she discovers she just adores Draco's son. There was also another chapter that would have dealt with naming Aidan, and with Harry's unwillingness to show his body to Draco once they were ready for sex again after the birth. He starts wearing shirts to bed, not taking them off during sex even though Draco comments, and finally it comes to light that Harry is worried about the scarring, the reminder to Draco of the pregnancy he might possibly be a little resentful over in terms of how it drastically and permanently it changed their lives. And, more forcibly, the idea Harry gets into his head that Draco won't find him as attractive anymore.

Of course, that's all bollocks, Harry. But. Poor boy's depressed and discombobulated, and probably suffering from post-partum.

Further along, there was more information about the male pregnancy in this universe. Obviously it is not a natural thing, but more than that, it is physically dangerous and, as evidenced by Harry here, very hard on the male body. Lasting effects. The other main point I never got around to is that once a man has one baby, that's it: no more babies. He is effectively made infertile in terms of carrying a child. It's a one-off, and sometimes it's not even that. I had extensive notes surrounding _Draco's_ attempt to get pregnant in this universe. I imagine it's when Aidan is around five years old and Harry is back on his feet.

Draco's difference is that he plans this baby and thus is guaranteed smoother sailing… except that he miscarries on their first attempt ~~because I'm a jerk~~. 

Here are those notes, edited a bit with my commentary in double parentheses.

~~

Draco talks to the healer, and she gives him info on the differences between a planned pregnancy and an accidental one. He and Harry talk about it. Harry wants to be sure that this is something Draco wants.

They cast the spells one night and Draco bottoms, and he breaks down towards the end. He's really on edge, terrified, and when it's over, Harry asks him if he wants to perform the counter spell. Draco can't decide. Harry decides he'd better do it, but Draco grabs his hand to stop him. Says no, no, it's okay. Don't perform the spell.

They sleep. Draco wakes Harry up by bottoming from the top, and then they rest. He doesn't even let Harry withdraw before starting again. Harry should be surprised here, but willing. ((I love how I talk to myself in my notes.)) Draco doesn't come the third time, but Harry comes, and then rolls Draco over and brings him off with a hj or a bj…

The baby takes two weeks later: Draco is very tired all of a sudden, doesn't want to get out of bed. Harry cares for Aidan, explains that Daddy is not feeling well.

Stuff happens… ((So VERY descriptive, self!)) At one point, Draco realizes he isn't feeling as worn through anymore. He goes to the Healer, who does tests and tells him he had a miscarriage of sorts.

Draco goes home and says nothing about it. Watches Aidan. Stares at Aidan's stuff. Harry notices he is upset but can't get Draco to say anything about it except that he's tired. Draco snaps at him to leave him alone, he just wants "to make dinner for our son."

That night they have sex and Harry is relieved because Draco seems to be acting normal. But halfway through, Draco begins to cry, can't stop shaking. He can't help but think of the night when they planned for this baby, how much Harry loves him, and how much he really, really wanted to carry Harry's child. Harry stops, afraid he's hurt Draco, and then Draco tells him what happened, that the baby is gone. Can't stop crying. Harry holds him very tightly, soothes him. ((And oh, self, you are so very, very weepy and dramatic with the boys!))

For a week Draco won't get out of bed. He's depressed, sleeps a lot. Harry cares for Aidan, tries to talk to Draco about it. Draco responds, but listlessly. Finally Harry calls Pansy.

Pansy wakes Draco up with a kiss and snuggles into bed beside him, on top of the covers ((because this detail obviously seemed Very Important to me as a plot point)). Draco acts nonchalant, but Pansy tells him that she knows. She talks to him gently. Draco listens and is comforted, to an extent. Draco's hand keeps straying to his belly, rubbing there, and Pansy notices, gets teary. He says how he didn't even get to feel it move and now he never will. Pansy says they are making advancements in the medical field all the time.

That night, Harry sends Aidan with Pansy. Draco asks Harry why he called Pansy over, and Harry says, "Because you needed it, needed her." Draco shakes his head, is still depressed. He tells Harry he wants him to "fuck me" with the implication of fucking it right out of him. He wants it hard, and Harry, after a moment of indecision, obliges him (Draco on all fours, clutching the bedpost, with Harry behind) ((GoodNESS, self, look at you, why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer)). After that, Draco wants it again, and this time, Harry does it with Draco on his back. Draco doesn't cry through it, but his face gets dull, set.

Next morning Draco sleeps late, and Aidan climbs into bed with him when he comes home. Draco wakes and says "Hello." Aidan pinches his nose and snuggles in. A while later, Draco wakes again to find Aidan sleeping in his arms, and Harry tucked behind him, holding his body. Harry kisses his neck, and Draco turns his head to let Harry kiss him. He really needs it. They sleep again.

A few days later, Aidan is with Pansy again, and Draco wakes and decides he needs to get out of bed. So he takes a long walk outside, down to the river, something like that. Maybe he meets a Muggle mom from the park who chats with him. She asks where Aidan is, says she hasn't seen Draco in a while, and that she saw Harry with Aidan the other day. She asks if Draco's feeling okay. He says he hasn't been sleeping, and she says it's because of the muggy weather and how she gets too hot at night and wakes up, and her husband snatches the covers in exasperation so she can be cool enough to sleep again. ((Ha, I find I like this woman. She should have her own original story.))

Draco goes home to find Hermione setting food out in their kitchen. They have an awkward convo, and Draco thinks that Harry told everyone, and that he should be angry on principle, but can't find the energy. He notices that Hermione is pregnant ((so of course my brain goes, WHAT? He just NOTICES. Like TELEPATHY. Or possibly there's a neon sign)), and she turns red and says maybe she had better go. But he stops her. They talk, he asks if she can feel it moving. She says yes, but sometimes it feels like her imagination. He says it isn't.

Draco goes to the healer and she tells him that after other tests, it is most likely he cannot conceive again. Draco takes it straight-faced. That it's alright, it's what he expected. She tells him to listen to her now like he did when she told him about Harry, and says it might NOT be alright, he might be suffering from clinical depression, and that she's already warned Harry about this. And not to get discouraged, and that she wants him in for check-ups every week. Perhaps counseling is mentioned? ((Duh, self, of course counseling is mentioned.)) She says it won't be absolutely certain that he can't conceive until a year has passed and then they can try again with the maximum chance of success if they still want to. Draco doesn't lean either way. He's still too broken and she knows it, so she drops the topic. ((My GOD, self, you do like to lay it on thick, don't you?))

~~

Thus end the notes, but _then_ there were story bits wherein Draco has indeed gotten pregnant and carried to term, and they are ecstatic, but the child (a little girl this time) turns out to be a Squib. This plot developed quite a bit later, and involves Draco questioning if this is his fault, if they shouldn't have tried at all a second time because technically, he shouldn't have been able to conceive again, and thus it was risky and he caused this. I wanted to address current discussions about parental responsibility when there is a possibility of birth defects or other lasting conditions due to genetics or what-have-you. In this case, the idea that their daughter's non-magical nature might have been avoided, followed up by the procession of their lives and coming to terms with their daughter's reality and how it's not bad at all, it just _is_. It's who she is and shouldn't be seen as a defect. 

Ultimately, it would have ended happily, with a fulfilling long term relationship (though likely not an official marriage) between Harry and Draco, and two lovely children whom they adore. But as you can imagine, this would have taken AGES, and a lot more inspiration than I have anymore for this universe. It saddens me, truly, because it still interests me and I would have liked to see their little family grow. 

I hope you have enjoyed this little jaunt through my overflowing brain. And yes, I do in fact have notebooks full of nonsensical scribbles and arrows and game plans and little symbols telling me which page and paragraph to jump to, with Arthur and Eames on one page and Harry and Draco on the next, splitting space with Tony and Steve and half the characters from CSI. It's a thing.

(FYI, it gets especially confusing when I'm also dabbling in Arthur/Merlin, and then I have to think for a minute about who the hell "M" is, and why is Arthur cheating on Eames with him? *faceplant*)


End file.
